
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/865042.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester, Victor_Henriksen/Dean_Winchester
  Character:
      Sam_Winchester, Dean_Winchester, Victor_Henriksen, Original_Characters
  Additional Tags:
      Torture, Psychological_Torture, Brainwashing, Minor_Character_Death
  Series:
      Part 1 of Cicatrix
  Collections:
      Supernatural_and_J2_Big_Bang_2013, SPN_littlebro
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-07-01 Chapters: 3/3 Words: 64874
****** Cicatrix ******
by roxymissrose
Summary
     "Cum Gladio Et Sale", With Sword and Salt. That's the Hunter's motto,
     engraved on the shield Dean Winchester wears with pride, more or
     less, as part of the Hunter/FBI Supernormal Management and
     Containment division—Vic Henriksen calls it Monster Squad for short.
     When he was nine years old, Dean left his baby brother to die in a
     house fire—his life has been all about atonement since then.
     Azazel, with no Lucifer endgame in the picture, is raising a crop of
     special children to be the generals of the army he's building to take
     over the world—the typical megalomaniac gameplan. Little Sam is
     shaping up to be his favorite.
Notes
     Originally posted on 6-26- 2013 for the Spn_J2 Big Bang 2013
     All the wonderful artwork in the story was created by .
***** Dean *****
[Part 1]
2003
A chilly October wind rattled loose window panes, forcing its way under the age
-warped door.
The wind was picking up, the temperature was dropping, though the forecast had
called for a mild night, unseasonably warm.
No one in the room knew, or cared ….
The Idyll Wile Inn was an old motel, built back when they were called motor
courts. The building was a horseshoe, with all the rooms opening onto it. Dean
loved places laid out like the Inn—made it easy to keep an eye on his baby and
she was protected from idiots in the street.
The rooms were nothing to write home about—the furniture was chipped and
cracked, sun-faded, like the paint on the walls. The linens and decorations
meant to be homey touches were decades out of fashion. But the comfortable beds
were dressed with clean sheets worn soft and smooth; the towels in the bathroom
were bigger than Kleenex and soft like the sheets.
In place of a TV, there was just an old radio with big dials on the face. While
normally no TV would have been a deal breaker, the lack of it was more than
made up for by the bathroom's shower, a huge damn thing, big enough for two
grown men to fit comfortably. The hot water was abundant and the pressure was a
dream. The walls were nice and thick. That was a good thing, because at the
moment two grown men were making excellent use of that great, big shower.
Caleb was cursing loudly and colorfully, making the kind of noise that brought
cops and embarrassing explanations. Dean shifted, knees squeaking against the
wet bottom of the tub, and swallowed again, rubbing Caleb's dick against the
roof of his mouth, sliding it just a fraction deeper into his throat. Spit and
precome filled his mouth, slid down his chin. Caleb moaned; beat against the
wall with his fists. "Fuck…that's it, can't…"
Dean swallowed again, rubbed the pad of his finger over the soft muscle of
Caleb's hole and moaned himself the way it opened to that slight pressure, come
and lube leaking out around his fingers before the hot water whisked it away. A
few seconds after, Caleb's hips jerked forward. He let out a surprised
groan—Dean's signal to relax and swallow. He liked that Caleb always sounded as
if orgasm was an unexpected result of getting his dick sucked.
Caleb fell back against the tiles and huffed out a long, satisfied sigh,
drawing his hand through the wet spikes of Dean's hair. "That was…yeah, pretty
good, Sweetcheeks, pretty good…."
Fingers trailed down to cup Dean's head. The move spoke of intimacy and Dean
didn't really approve of that. He shook Caleb's hand off. "Fuck you, don't call
me that. 'Sides, it was freakin' amazing and you know it," he said.
"Okay, it was…better'n pretty good." Caleb laughed. "So egotistical."
"It's not egotistical if it's true." Dean rolled to his feet, wiping his mouth
on Caleb's shoulder. He ignored the 'jerk' grumbled into his ear, just enjoyed
the excellent water pressure and plentiful heat. Caleb got out first, slapping
Dean's ass before he grabbed one of the surprisingly fluffy towels. "Don't
drown," he said and left the room.
Dean loved showers— loved fucking in showers, loved showers when they were like
this, a nearly erotic experience on their own. The Idyll Wile just put itself
at the top of his favorite places list. If the breakfast provided with the room
was half-way decent, he was officially labeling it Nirvana. Hell, even if the
breakfast was shit, free breakfast still made it top of the list.
When Dean finally pulled himself out of the shower, the room was empty, but an
involuntary glance towards Caleb's side of the room showed his bag was still
shoved up under the desk. He rubbed the towel a little harder through his hair
and tossed it on the floor.
He was halfway through a science fiction paperback he'd found in a dresser
drawer a couple of motels ago before Caleb came strolling back in the room,
jeans done up but his shirt open, putting a scattering of bruises and bites on
display. That good ache hit Dean again, doubled—tripled—as he eyed the path his
teeth had taken the length of Caleb's chest.
Caleb snorted when he realized what Dean was looking at, and tossed a coke and
a bag of chips at him. "Here—dinner. Don’t say I don't treat you right."
"You don't treat me right, old man. Where'd you go? Grabbing snacks don’t take
that long."
"Talkin' to a Hunter, Shane Mackey from here in Kansas."
"Talking, hanh? That's what they're calling it now?"
"Dude," Caleb held his hands out, "I ain't got the energy to fuck somebody else
right now."
"Whatever, old guy." Dean cracked open the coke and peered at Caleb as he took
a long drink, said, "You know it’s okay with me, right?"
Caleb grinned. "Asshole. So. Wanna tell me what's really bugging you…it's the
gig tomorrow, right? That's what Shane was chewin' my ear off about. It's a big
one, sure, but you'll do fine. Y'always do. You're Dean Winchester, the
unstoppable, the invincible."
Dean laughed softly. "Yeah, I wish. I'm just…I don’t know." He pulled himself
higher up the bed, tossed the book on a side table and flicked the covers back.
Caleb let himself fall to the bed, tucked his arms under his head, and
contemplated the ceiling.
"Not lyin', Winchester. You're a force of nature. Yer gonna kick this thing in
the ass and come up roses—like always."
"Right, dude." Dean kneed Caleb in the side, before shoving down and lining up
shoulder to shoulder with Caleb. "It's just a…I don't know, weird feeling I
have, like…something's coming at me. Like it's hanging over me, breathin' down
my neck."
Caleb eyed Dean—they'd both come to respect Dean's gut feelings. "Tell ya what,
I'll keep an extra-vigilant watch on your back, but I really think with the
firepower we're going in with? Piece of cake, dude, piece of cake."
                                      =+=
Dean was still awake long after Caleb had dropped off. He punched up the
pillow, forcing his face into its softener-scented swell. Sleep might be
evading him but Caleb was having no such trouble. Dean lay listening to his
partner's heavy, even breathing from the next bed, the bed frame squeaking as
Caleb moved in his sleep. Dean shifted uneasily. Knew he needed sleep to be on
point the next day, but the more he chased it, the less likely sleep seemed
possible. Thoughts wandered without stopping, from the living to the dead, from
the long list of his screw-ups to the pitifully short list where he'd managed
not to fuck up...and as always, it came back to John Winchester, long dead and
gone. Whirling thoughts slammed to a stop when his brother's face floated up
from the deepest, darkest pit of his mind. The brother he'd killed.
Dean's chest tightened, squeezed in a painful grip of shame and guilt. He
forced a breath in, another and another, until it wasn't a chore to breathe
anymore. Forced that damning image back down in the dark where it belonged,
with the rest of his crimes and failures….
                                      =+=
Dean eyed the Kevlar vest unhappily before manhandling it onto his body with an
annoyed grunt. The damn thing weighed a ton, what with being studded with
silver knobs and plates at critical points. FBI was stenciled across the chest,
SMAC stenciled across the back: Supernormal Management and Containment. Fuckin'
thing made him sweat like a whore in church. He hated wearing it but when you
worked with the FBI's Monster Squad, you followed their rules. And you never,
ever called them "Smack." They had a way of letting you know how much they
disliked that.
The noise in the conference room rose, and Dean smiled to himself. He wasn't
the only one less than pleased at having to wear SMAC gear. Quite a few of the
other Hunters—all guys he'd worked with before— were grumbling as they
struggled into the vests. Some of them cursed out loud trying to get the
gauntlets, also studded with silver plates, to settle in a comfortable
position. The damn things were a bitch to get on, but Dean had to admit they
came in handy sometimes. Nothing like punching a wolf in the face and dropping
it in its tracks.
He flexed the gauntlets, tilting them from side to side, watching the way the
weak morning sun coming through the windows made the silver glint. That close
to his face, Dean was aware of the way they smelled; old leather and sweat and
silver cleaner, a subtle acidic odor, a familiar scent that used to mean home.
A cough startled him out of his memories—the room had slowly filled while he'd
been distracted, agents and local law officers filing in. Someone started
coffee, and someone else dropped the volume on the TV in the rear wall of the
conference room. A couple of boxes of donuts got tossed on one of the
conference tables and Dean huffed, pleased and amused at once. Bound to be
donuts in the cop house, he figured. He scanned a box, stuffed a glazed in his
mouth and snagged a jelly-filled before making his way to the coffee. Caleb
came wandering through the crowd, greeting those he knew and sizing up the ones
he didn't. He cast Dean a look, smirked. "I kin hear you whining from 'cross
the room."
"I didn't say a damn thing," Dean protested.
"See what a whiner you are? Kin hear you even with your mouth closed." Caleb
grinned. "Turn around; I'll do you up, 'Cheeks."
"Goddamn it, Cee, knock it off with that Sweetcheeks shit already," Dean
growled and gulped the hot black coffee to wash down his donuts. He was patient
with letting Caleb adjust the vest's straps—in his opinion Caleb fussed too
much. Too damn soft-hearted, that one.
"Okay. Squared away." Caleb patted him on the back, then quick as that planted
a sneaky kiss on the back of Dean's neck, right where the short hairs gave way
to soft skin, and it shot a shiver down Dean's spine. Caleb danced back with a
laugh, narrowly avoiding getting an elbow in the kidneys. "Watch it,
Winchester!"
"Dickface," Dean snapped, but before he could say more, a couple of the Monster
Squad guys come strolling into the room.
"Winchester, Blackwell. Making trouble already, I see."
Dean smirked at the SMAC guys pushing through the hunters and local law already
milling around the coffee. He knew this crew, had worked with them before. He'd
been backup with them on a really weird vampire nesting—vamps had run roughshod
over a little backwoods village, made it their personal blood bank. That
shocked the shit out of everyone, vamps mobbed up like that, seeing as they
usually weren't that ambitious. The lead on that job had been the very same
good-looking sonafabitch strutting through the door like he owned the damn
place. Dean dipped his head to hide a widening smile. Vic Henriksen looked same
as he always did, compact muscle under deep coffee skin that was smooth as
silk. Dean knew every dip and valley of that body and the dark eyes pinning him
knew his just as well. Henriksen grinned that smart-ass, lop-sided grin, cocky
as always but obviously genuinely pleased to see Dean. "Well, well, Mr.
Winchester…looks like today's your lucky day, hunh?"
Dean was glad to see him, too. Strictly in a professional context because
competent help was always appreciated. If his heart beat a tic faster, it was
just adrenaline, getting psyched for the job. Dean bounced a little on the
balls of his feet, tugged his belt into a more comfortable fit.
"Dude." Caleb snorted softly at his side. "Upstairs brain on the job," he
whispered.
"Yeah, yeah, fuck you," Dean huffed. That was the problem with practically
living in the same pair of pants with someone…they knew when you wanted in some
other guy's pants. "So, why'd Director Waller take time out to invite me
specifically to this little tea party, Henriksen?"
Before he could answer, a white guy built like a stack of cinder-blocks moved
out from behind Henriksen, a half smile on his long face. Carl Reidy—Dean
remembered him from the vamp job, that and another job that Reidy'd been lead
on—busting up a 'walker pack. Carl was sharp, observant, tough as rawhide, and
that translated to being a bad-ass under fire; Dean could appreciate that. Dean
nodded a greeting. "Reidy."
Reidy flashed him a smile, one that widened into a smirk when he glanced over
at Henriksen. "I'm sure Assistant Director Waller invited you 'cause you're
just a special little flower like that, Winchester. Pleasure to be working with
you again. I'm sure I can speak for my partner on that. I think he's real glad
to see you."
And that sharp, observant nature also led to him being kind of a smart-
ass…whatever. Dean moved his attention back to Henriksen and ignored Reidy's
stupid snicker.
"This job's big enough that we need our best on it, Winchester and that's you,"
Henriksen said. "Not tryin' t'soap you, it's just a fact. I'll fill you in on
the particulars as soon as the Sheriff—that's Sheriff Carlyle, over there—has
briefed his men. You know most of the Hunters that are coming on board, right?"
"Sure, "Dean said, and Caleb nodded.
"This here freak fight ring," Caleb asked, "is it that big a deal?" He winced.
"Don't mean that any ring's not a big deal, it's just…there's a hell of a lot
guys milling around here. We usually just swoop in on whatever squat the ring's
set up in and bag all the supes, arrest the perps."
"And save people, if we can." Dean made a face. It was getting to be, the
freaks into this type of thing wanted more blood, more show. Nothing makes a
show like sweeping bums off the street and tossing them in a fight with a wolf,
or a few chupacabras….
"Yeah. We got word that there's some big time sonofabitch supposed to show up,
someone on the top tier." Henriksen stopped, narrowed his eyes at Dean, "Can
you take a minute? I've got something I wanna talk about that needs some
privacy."
They walked off together down one of the hallways, rubber soles squeaking
against the glass-shiny floor tiles. Henriksen motioned Dean towards an alcove,
fixed him with a hard stare. Dean leaned against the wall, crossed arms over
his chest as best he could and waited. Fine. He was willing to give Henriksen
his little moment of drama.
Henriksen sighed, wiped his hand slowly over his mouth and then said,
"Winchester…look. The word is that this muckamuck running the ring is more than
some rich motherfucker with a hard-on for death matches—he's a demon."
"Well—yeah." Dean was hardly impressed by that bit of intel; it was obvious as
fuck there were demons involved in most of these fightrings, along with a
variety of supes. Hell, the sheer number of Hunters milling around the
conference room told him that they expected to come up against a Boss Demon, a
Second Rung at the least. These days most local law enforcement handled a lone,
lower rung demon, a were or two, just fine on their own—even a nest of vamps
wasn't an automatic SMAC/Hunter call anymore. But demons mobbed up together,
that was a whole 'nother kettle of fish….
Henriksen went on, "Yeah, see, it's more than that. This one's rumored to be a
Big Boss demon. Like, 'don't throw its name around' kinda big. We're
thinking…maybe Lillith. Or, maybe the demon that. You know. Your family."
"What the fuck—why am I just finding this out now? That fucker's been priority
one since Bobby Singer was a pup!" Dean was pissed as hell. How could he
havemissed this? Where were the signs? Should have been clear trace, probably
was and they just…god damn it. Pop should have seen it. He should have seen
it…his whole life, he's been tracking demon sign. How the fuck had he dropped
the ball?
"Shit…" Dean scrubbed hands through his hair savagely, flung his arms wide.
"All right, all right—so we get that bastard cornered—maybe. What do we do
then? You know demons are hard as shit to get dug out once they latch on a
meatsuit. We can flip the low level ones, sure. But those upper echelon
bastards…holy water, salt, hell, exorcism doesn't much make 'em do more than
sneeze. My dad claimed there was a surefire way to kill it, but he never found
it, far's I know. But I don't…." Dean ended with his hands on his hips, one
over his gun, the other over an HW grenade. Both of them as useless against
that monster as he was….
A squeak against the glass-like tiles alerted them to company coming. Caleb was
headed their way, leading some grizzled old guy who looked like he had a
serious problem with the world. The old guy came to a stop, looked Dean up and
down…Dean had the feeling he'd just lost points on some double secret test he
didn't know he was taking. The guy tilted his head back the barest inch he
could to make eye contact with Dean. Said, "You worryin' about that big Boss
Demon. Well, don't. That's my job. Taking out the big ones is where I come in."
Old Dude stopped, took a breath, and Dean got another hard, assessing look, the
kind Dean figured he'd stopped being on the end of when John Winchester died.
It put his back up—no one living had the privilege of looking at Dean like that
'cept maybe Bobby Singer. Henriksen palmed Dean's shoulder and squeezed,
slight, quick, and said, "Daniel Elkins, meet Dean Winchester."
"Winchester. Nice to meet you finally. Your dad was a hell of a hunter. Heard
you don’t do bad yourself."
"Thanks," Dean twisted a bit uncomfortably. Truth to tell, he hardly remembered
John Winchester and had long since gotten used to thinking of Bobby Singer as
his father. Not that he didn't respect the memory of John—it was just that when
everything went to shit, Bobby was the one who'd taken him in and cared for him
when no one else would. More than that, acted like it was a damn privilege,
crazy old sonafabitch.
"If it hadn't been for John Winchester and Bobby Singer, we hunters would still
be working the job underground," Elkins was saying and Dean nodded. "Can't say
I dig the paperwork, and this registering every crappy little job is for the
birds. Though I'd sure be lying if I said I don’t enjoy the steady paychecks,
and damn if the benefits don't help smooth the way." He gave a dry little cough
Dean assumed was meant to be a chuckle.
Dean considered the old man, and decided he might as well be sociable—the man
had known his father. "Yes sir, I hear you on the paperwork. Rather feed my
thumbs through a wood chipper."
Elkins gave another dry little cough of amusement, "Well, I got something here
that's gonna make you want to hold onto 'em."
Henriksen pushed the door open on an empty office and Elkins gestured for Dean
to follow him in. He took a wooden box out of the bag he was holding. The box
was old, had the vaguely mildewed, dusty smell of very old wood. Elkins set it
down on one of the desks and pulled the lid up. Cradled inside was a gun, an
old military-style revolver, engraved with a pattern of vines and what looked
to be Latin words running the long length of the barrel. The box held an almost
full rack of bullets as well, handmade and each engraved with a number. Elkins
ran a finger along the gun's slim barrel. "This gun…this gun was made to kill a
demon."
Dean huffed. "It's a great-looking gun, what is it—a Colt, right, one of those
Indian War era military revolvers? I mean, it's antique and it's cool, but it's
not magical."
Elkins and Henriksen both looked at Dean like he was an idiot. "Well," the old
man said. "I have used it. Once or twice. And it did do what it was advertised
to do. In my book, that makes it pretty god damn magical."
Dean stopped himself from dropping his head like a scolded schoolboy, muttered
"Yes sir."
"Samuel Colt himself made it. Made sure it was a weapon of power. Dean, this is
the thing that's gonna end the demon who killed your mother, your father, and
more than likely your brother—" Elkins held up his hand when Dean tried to
interrupt. "This is the weapon your dad, rest his soul, spent half a lifetime
looking for. Your dad…he had a feeling. Before he died, he sent me a box full
of notes and speculation and hopes. It was good enough, Dean. Helped us find
this."
Dean stared at Elkins, open-mouthed with shock and a growing, cautious, feeling
of hope. "I didn't know…didn't know he was that close…."
"No reason why you would, son, you were barely out of grade school." Elkins
shook his head. "Well. Between John's notes and mine, and hunters from 'round
the States, we found it. We get one good shot at that demonic pile of crap, and
this gun won’t just return that thing to hell—it'll wipe it out of this world
and the next, forever. No coming back."
No coming back…the words rang in Dean's head all the way back to the conference
room. To wipe a demon out totally…not just send it back to hell so that in a
few decades it crawled back out to spew its filth all over again, but to truly
destroy it. If this weapon worked the way Elkins said it would, than John's
life wasn't a waste—here was the thing that was going to erase the monster that
ripped his family to pieces. Dean could barely believe it. He'd finally have
the chance to kill Azazel. It'd be a drop in the well of penance he paid for
killing his baby brother, but if they managed to wipe that fucker out, he'd
finally breathe a little easier….
                                      =+=
"All right, listen up, everyone. Sheriff Carlyle's gonna bring us up to speed
here—Sheriff?"
The sheriff stepped up. "This fight ring's been squatted here for almost a
month. Things have been fairly low key, quiet—as these things go—but recently
our man inside let us know it's been active as an anthill with a stick shoved
in. Their whole operation's holed up in the Gattison Mansion, out in Bayer's
Wood. It's isolated—roads leading to it are overgrown, and it's rare anyone
goes out there." The sheriff hesitated, and then leaned back against the table
behind him, a rueful grin on his face. "Well, nowadays at least. Before the
roads got too bad, we used to have to roust kids outta there from time to
time—that's how we know it. 'Cause none of us here were ever the kinda kids to
head out there. Am I right?" He looked at his men, the grin spreading just a
bit. All around the room, men were shifting and coughing and flashing some
shamed-faced grins.
"Yup. Kids find places like that like they got radar. Then they get jobs and
cars and forget all about getting high in the dark in a rat trap. And I say get
high when I mean get laid—"
That got a few chuckles, and Carlyle nodded, went on when they quieted again.
"The place is big, still solid. Not gonna be easy to crack. Our target's the
second floor. The fights go on up there; they use a doggone full size pool as
the staging ground. Throw the poor fucks in together and fish out the winners."
On the TV, a floor plan of the mansion popped up on the screen. Carlyle pointed
out the pool, and how rooms were arranged around it. "We think they're camping
in these rooms, but the fighters are in the basement. According to our guy,
there's a were and a shapeshifter on property, possibly two. There's two, maybe
more, humans, but possibly possessed. If they are, they're being kept separate
from the other demons. That makes our man uncertain if they are or aren't
humans." The sheriff exchanged looks with the SMAC agents and shrugged. "No one
gets close to them but some bastard named Uncle Luke."
"Uncle Luke?" one of the LEOs asked.
"That's all we got on this one, it's a sure bet that's a pseud. There's nothing
in the system about him. At all." Sheriff Carlyle huffed. "Anyway. There's
pretty thick cover: good for us, unfortunately good for them. Still we got the
home court advantage against those bastards…" The Sheriff sighed. "My men and I
will be going for the front door, making a shit ton of noise. While we got the
monsters occupied, SMAC will go in the back."
There was some grumbling, and some whispers about bait. Henriksen narrowed his
eyes at the cops.
"Anybody who thinks my men have the easier job, please feel free to change
places. You guys are going to be behind the HW trucks, and they're every one of
them manned by experienced Hunters. Don’t forget our snipers out there—they
been to more than a few monster rodeos. Everyone on this job is handpicked, by
me, and I only pick the best of the best. Okay? Now, this thing is more than
just a bunch of sick motherfuckers mobbed up to watch something die hideously
and make bank doing it…" Henriksen stopped, glanced at Dean before continuing.
"Appears what's running this thing is a top echelon demon, a very big, very
bad, Boss Demon."
The noise level rose as the men absorbed the information. Henriksen shouted out
over the noise, "This kind of thing's been popping up lately." Everyone's
attention snapped back to Henriksen, and he continued at a normal tone.
"Kids have been starring in these fights recently, early to late teens. Turns
out, some of these kids have been reported missing since about…ten, fifteen
years ago. Which leads us to believe, they were stolen for this."
Caleb and Dean exchanged a look. Rumors that had been circulating through
Hunter circles the last few years proved to be right. The thought of kids in
the hands of these sick fucks…ice crawled through Dean's gut.
Something was heating up. There was some game going on in underworld circles
that Hunters had missed or maybe just plain misread. Dean's stomach slowly
flipped, thinking of little kids being minced up in the meat grinder of those
fight rings.
Elkin's spoke up then, taking the floor from Henriksen. "If you're asking
yourself why, well, it seems like maybe those demonic bastards are doing it
more than for kicks. We've been trying to backtrack these kids, but most of
them show up dead ends. Dead families, foster kids, street kids…no ties. We've
been working this real close to the vest, not wanting to tip off the enemy and
maybe starting a scramble to get rid of…evidence. Clues."
Caleb eyed Dean. They were thinking the same thing. Just how long had SMAC been
working on this? How long had they known kids were being used like this? Caleb
asked, "We got a name for this fucker?"
Elkins spoke up. "Might have. Azazel, my contact swore it. Mind you, my contact
was none too…reliable."
Dean knew what that meant—the old guy had more than likely tortured the hell
out of some low-level scum sucker. Always risky intel, but…sometimes demons
didn't lie.
Henriksen wrapped up the briefing, and the agents and cops finished prepping.
The last stage was attaching a huge, thick badge to their vests, silver-coated
iron fashioned into a pentagram set in a thick ring. Inside the ring were
engraved other, more ancient symbols. Together, they made a Solomon's seal,
SMAC's seal. On the Hunters badges, there was a little extra. On the outside of
the ring was inscribed the Hunters' motto, "cum gladio et sale",With Sword and
Salt. The badges were also protection against demon possession. Helpful, if not
in any way fool-proof. Most of the Hunters had anti-possession tattoos, and
more than likely some of the feds did too, but wearing the badge was better
than leaving yourself an open invitation as a demon ride.
                                      =+=
Mixed groups of FBI, LEOs and Hunters milled around each vehicle, some smoking,
some chatting. A few guys leaned back against the armored sides of the vehicle,
eyes closed, faking calm. Dean knew how to do that…he'd been studying that
since he was a kid.
"Hey." Caleb tapped Dean, pointed out a group off to one side. Henriksen was
standing with the men there, deep in conversation. Weaving in and out of the
men's legs were some of the biggest fucking dogs Dean had ever seen. They were
hip height; thin bones laid over with lean muscle and covered with wiry, dark
fur. Their long jaws hung open, thin, pale tongues swept over cream fangs. Dean
watched them move, and shivered. There was something off about them. One of the
dogs turned its head and seemed to stare right at Dean; too much awareness
gleamed out of bright red eyes.
"What the fuck…" Dean muttered. The dog snorted in disinterest and leaned
against the agent holding its leash. Red eyes narrowed in pleasure when his
handler reached down and scratched its ears vigorously, like it was somebody's
backyard beagle instead of the obvious lovechild of a werewolf and Marmaduke.
Henriksen sauntered up, smirking when he caught Dean's uneasy gaze. "Seen our
K-9 backup, hunh? Those men and their dogs are going to single out the humans
for us. Takes the guesswork out of who's who."
"Hunh." Caleb leaned around Dean and studied the dogs, the men. "Yeah? They're
good at that, I guess?"
"Yep. That's what they've been trained for. Bred to be tough motherfuckers,
able to stand up against most supes. They're Irish wolfhound mixes." Henriksen
looked a little sideways as he said that.
Dean's gut twinged. Henriksen sounded entirely too casual for Dean's taste and
that usually meant something was about to stink up the joint. "What the fuck
are they mixed with, Satan?" Dean asked.
Henriksen laughed, a little too high-pitched for it to be reassuring. "Close
enough," he said. He slapped Dean on the shoulder, letting his hand curl around
his neck before walking off, calling for everyone to load.
Dean knew damn well Henriksen had no intention of answering his question—which
was pretty much an answer in itself. He glanced back over his shoulder as he
walked away, watching the dogs being loaded. They were all eerily silent. He
worked with dogs often, lots of hunters used them to track supes, and he was
used to them barking and whining, dashing around and making noise. He shook his
head and jumped into the vehicle, dropped into the seat Caleb held for him.
Working with any flavor of supe went against the grain. That's not what John
Winchester had died for…it wasn't the world Dean worked for, not one where
supernatural beings had a place. Dean dropped his head back against the vinyl
headrest and sighed. And when he was king of the world, the whole ball of wax
would roll the way he wanted. Until then, best that he just shut his face and
do what needed to be done.
                                      =+=
The vehicle's overhead lights went from white to red, and conversation dropped
to whispers. Carl punched Dean on the arm in passing as he and Henriksen moved
to the front, where the operations command center was set up. Dean sat the
bench with the rest of the crew, more than happy to leave being head honcho to
Henriksen. He buckled in and waited, trying to clear his mind and not having
great success. Now that it was almost game time, no one was pretending to be
cool and unflappable anymore because they all knew—being the good guys gave you
no guarantee of coming through untouched.
Raids like this were dangerous as fuck, and even worse when humans were in the
mix. Demons were easy. They were straightforward; they wanted one thing, chaos.
There were rules and defenses that monsters couldn't break, defenses that
always worked depending on the skill and speed of the Hunters. Humans—they
fucked up everything. They were unpredictable, no rules applied to them and the
only defense was shoot first and accurately. Dean knew it was probably a touch
weird he'd always rather deal with monsters than humans. Monsters he got,
humans…not so much.
Caleb pushed Dean back out of his head with a wicked elbow. "Hey, where'd you
go?"
Dean didn't waste time answering Caleb. He just snapped open his holster,
checking his gun. Around him he heard the snap-click of others doing the same;
checking the guns made to fire mixed silver-iron rounds, checking holy water
grenades, checking salt, knives, the fastenings on gloves, boots, and vest. He
had Caleb check his fastenings and then turned around and did it for Caleb.
Didn't matter that they'd done it already—there was no such thing as being
over-prepared. Caleb chuckled as Dean worked over his vest. "Thought you said I
was bein' fussy…"
"Shut up," Dean muttered, smacking the last buckle as he snugged it tight.
                                      =+=
They were deep in the woods now, and the smooth road they'd traveled had become
a kidney-jarring wrangle over deep rutted, almost overgrown tracks through
tangle and dirt. Dean heard Vic issuing orders from up front, okaying
deployment of the HW trucks, and heard each of the vans checking in, all in
place and ready to go. Quickly, Vic came out to them and said, "Run through
again. We've got our snipers in the woods, ready to go. Our guys on the scene
report that the roads leading all the way in are passable, but the woods are
thick enough out there that the scumbags have every expectation of not being
made. Security is simple—thugs with guns, that's about it."
Dean snorted. "Thugs my ass," he muttered. No doubt demons patrolled the
perimeters, probably with 'hounds…he gripped the pentagram on the front of his
vest, started muttering an exorcism. He had the words down pat, but in the heat
of battle he sometimes flubbed a pronunciation or occasionally substituted
whole different words. He wasn't top flight with Latin, not like his Dad was.
Whatever…between an iron axe for the hellhounds, holy water and a can-do
attitude for the demons, they were good to go. He ran a finger around the big
silver pentagram and hoped he was right.
                                      =+=
Moonlight glowed in the branches overhead, leaves filtering the light into dots
and dashes of silver across tree trunks, on the ground. Dean shuffled forward,
three arms lengths away from Caleb at his left and Caleb's buddy, Shane Mackey,
at his right. Hunters and Monster Squad alike moved in a chain as they edged
closer to the property, one silent step at a time. Dean trod lightly as
possible, careful not to step wrong. Thankfully, the leaf litter on the forest
floor was thick and muffled footsteps well. They wove carefully through
branches and shrubs and tangled snarls of vines, eyes searching, waiting.
Dean's heart slammed in his chest, felt like it was beating in time to his
steps. Sweat dampened his hairline and his breath came quicker. Fear had him
almost high with the adrenalin rush. This was what he was good at, what he'd
been raised to do. Find evil bastards and snuff them out. He let the feeling
fill him, settle his nerves….
His earpiece came to life, Vic muttering, "Okay, my guys, head towards Blue…"
meaning the east side of the mansion. "Carlyle, have your group push on to
Red…"—meaning the front of the mansion.
Dean couldn't see Caleb now but knew he'd heard as well. He turned eastward,
angling towards a break in the undergrowth, and ran right into one of the
perimeter guards. The guard grinned, and Dean had the brief impression of too
many teeth. He muttered Christo, triggered the HW grenade he snatched from a
clip on his vest. The water sprayed in a wide arc, wetting down the guard and
streaming off leaves and branches in the way. Dean didn't stop to see results;
he was bringing his Colt 1911 to bear the second he'd set off the grenade. The
guard grinned wider, water dripping down his face, but his eyes didn't shift
and his skin didn't steam—instead, he whipped his own gun up to fire, snapped,
"Sic 'em!"
Dean heard a deep growl behind him but didn't react to that, his concentration
on what was in front of him. Dean snapped off a shot just as the other man did,
hit the guard between the eyes. The guy went down just as a giant fist hit Dean
in the side and knocked him to his knees—the vest had done its job. With any
luck his ribs were just bruised.
Being knocked off his feet saved him; the dog behind him overshot, and instead
of grabbing his neck, it clamped down on his arm. Brilliant pain ripped through
him and he fumbled for his gun. The dog—just a fucking Rottweiler, and Dean was
beyond thankful for that—jerked him across the path. Seemed the dog was trying
to drag him back into the shrubbery and that was bound to be a very bad thing.
The dog growled, its jaws loosening to get a better grip. Getting that second's
reprieve, Dean snagged a knife off his vest and hoped for the best. There was a
pop, and a hot explosion of blood.
"Get up, quick." Caleb kicked the dog away and yanked Dean to his feet. Dean
barely touched the ground before they were running, Caleb's hand wrapped tight
around Dean's wrist. The pain in his arm raced and throbbed but he could move
it, so Dean counted it good.
He almost stumbled when Vic's voice boomed over a loudspeaker, startling him as
it set off frantic activity. "Now!"
The woods lit up, the dark shredded as the HW trucks lurched to life. Like some
scene out of Mad Max the trucks surged out of cover, two Hunters apiece manning
the water guns, spraying holy water as speakers blared out an exorcism. There
were three of them all going off at once, bursts of Latin, doubling, tripling
words, but over that Dean heard the screaming start up. He shoved his Colt back
in its holster and pulled the sawed-off out of the holster strapped to his
thigh.
Holy water blasted the front of the house, showering walls and windows and
pouring into doors, steaming demons, bowling humans over. Dean jerked,
staggering into the agent at his shoulder. Both men started when eerie howls
suddenly made a counterpoint to the blare of the exorcism, discordant sounds
completely unlike the guard dogs' howling. Weird, frightening and totally
unearthly, the sound weaved in and out of the electronic crackle pouring Latin
into the air.
Hellhounds. Dean shivered, racked his shotgun, iron and salt shot ready to go.
It took him a moment to realize the unearthly howling was coming from their
dogs, the dogs Vic claimed were trained to separate out humans and block them
from possible harm. Dean got the feeling that this was true—in theory.
Carlyle's men blasted through the front of the decrepit mansion—anything coming
out the back was fair game for the Monster Squad. Gunfire, screams filled a
night that gave way to an artificial daylight as lights were quickly set up and
switched on. Waves of demons smoked out on the express to hell, while their
human accomplices broke against a barricade of agents and hunters.
Dean, Caleb, and a small group of hunters charged through the eastern wing of
the house. Dean spotted Reidy and his men fighting a mixed group of demons and
humans in front of a marble staircase. A small group, but the demons in the mix
made it a losing fight until Dean and some other hunters jumped in. Salt and
holy water and extra firepower evened the odds, until they were left with
terrified humans and abandoned corpses.
Dean took a moment to breathe, sweeping the area with a glance, and was
surprised to note that the interior actually seemed to be in good repair, in
contrast to the outside of the place. His overwhelming impression was marble,
tons of it, along with gilt wood, mahogany…and a line of losers in gowns and
tuxes, spread out face down in a clear space on the floor. The local cops were
snapping plasticuffs onto wrists dripping with gems. He heard Caleb snarl,
"Rich people." Reidy laughed.
Carlyle motioned them to take the stairs, and Reidy raised an eyebrow, gestured
'Up?' The sheriff nodded and went back to supervising the arrests. Reidy
shrugged and directed his men to take the stairs.
The staircase opened onto a wide hall on the second floor, a hall that led in
turn to a huge room. There were a few other rooms along the large hall. The
doors of the room at the end of the hall gaped wide, shattered and splintered
and barely hanging on their hinges.
Agents peeled off the main group, kicking open doors and yanking occupants out
of the room. Humans, mostly terrified, confused…some chained, some not, but all
of them grateful once they realized what was happening.
Something made Dean head straight to the last room at the end of the hall. He
stepped through the shattered doors and was assaulted by over-bright light, too
much noise, a god-awful stench…he blinked a moment before what he saw
registered with him. An empty swimming pool, a sloppily erected chain link
fence surrounding it, supported by an iron railing that circled the pool area.
There were…things hanging from the railing, blood was everywhere. A couple of
bodies that were hard to identify as human or monster lay in a far corner of
the pool. Dean scrubbed at his mouth, licked dry lips. "Fuck…"
The pool was a nightmare, like a blood-splashed Hieronymus Bosch painting made
three dimensional.
Dean snapped back to attention when screams rose wildly behind him. More shots
rang out and then something blocked his way—he got an impression of heat and a
thick animal smell overlaid with the copper/iron tang of blood. A deep, rolling
snarl raised the hair on his neck, a whuff of furnace-hot breath steamed
against his scalp—before another rank breath could wash over him, Dean was
down, rolling forward and dodging a strike from claws like scythes. They ripped
the back of his vest into streamers of canvas and netting, shrieked as they met
the metal and ceramic plates sewn into the vest. He yanked a knife from its
sheath and was striking as he came up. The knife lodged in something that felt
like a fur-covered brick wall. A gurgling scream made him wince but he hung on,
sawing, sawing and cursing.
The were shifted its attack, going for Dean's arm and hanging up in the fucking
gauntlet—Dean swore, staggered by the pain—he could feel the pressure of its
teeth when they closed over the gauntlet. The muffled howl the werewolf let out
when it met silver had Dean deeply grateful for having worn the fucking
gauntlets, and he swore to himself never to bitch about them again. He grimly,
frantically, sawed as the thing tried to pry its teeth loose of the leather and
silver—Dean sawed and tore until a heavy weight smacked his thigh. His arm felt
like it was being jerked out of the socket, burned like it was on fire and then
the hot, sodden weight hit and rolled off his knee. Hit the ground in front of
him with a thump like a rotten melon.
The werewolf head lay at his feet, neck raggedly severed and blood fucking
everywhere. The gauntlet and most of Dean's shirtsleeve was clutched in its
fangs. He grabbed a holy water grenade and cracked it open. Water sluiced over
his arm and the blood hissed a bit but. Clean. His arm was clean. Nothing—not a
puncture, a scratch, and most blessedly of all, not a bite.
"Thank fuck," he gasped. He let go of the fear he'd repressed while struggling,
and the relief was so fucking huge, it staggered him. His hands shook violently
as he raised them to wipe his face clean…terror had lent him strength he was
going to pay for in spades come morning.
They'd torn down the gate part of the chain link around the pool, the easier to
get the dogs in, but left the rest of the fencing intact so the remaining
fighters had only one way out—through the dogs and agents blocking the exit.
Dean leaned against the fence and tried to center himself as he watched the
action below. SMAC's hounds were forcing fighters back against one side of the
marble tiled pool, away from the chaos around them, herding the group
of—humans, monsters, hard to tell—with growls and nips. Except for the blood
and ragged bits of things Dean was decidedly not looking at scattered around
them, it'd be easy to take them all as victims—they were wide eyed and shaking
with fear. Frightened, defenseless, huddled against each other like innocents
caught up against their will.
Dean snorted. Victims, right. None of the cops or the agents were that stupid.
Until they had proof that what was in the pool was human, they hung back and
let the dogs sort it out. Dean stared and gradually realized that the only
noise coming out of that pool was from the dogs—the fighters were silent. It
was creepy as fuck. A tall, maybe-human, painted over with drying blood, pushed
its way out of the knot of other fighters and rushed the hounds. Growling in a
way that cemented Dean's feeling that it was a shifter or a 'walker, it struck
a dog with one big fist and dropped it like a broken toy. The crack as the
dog's neck broke was loud in the sudden silence.
"Fuck…my dogs…." Dean startled at the cursing. Henriksen had managed to come up
behind him unnoticed. The sound of Henriksen's voice drew the fighter's
attention towards the agents and hunters at the rim of the pool, and the
fighter whirled around to face them. Dean got an impression of wild eyes, white
teeth; there were smudges of something dark around its mouth and under one eye.
Dean was shocked—not a supe, it was definitely human. Even if its strength or
its behavior wasn't; Dean was sure it was a human boy.
"Stop that sonofabitch from killing my dogs!" Vic shouted. Agents jumped down
into the pool, and it took several of them before the boy finally went down,
fighting and snarling all the way.
"Idiots," Henriksen growled. "Dumb ass motherfuckers…" Dean tuned him out.
Henriksen didn't really mean it, and what was going on behind them was way more
important than Vic and his weird-ass fretting over a pack of canine monster-
killers, barely one step removed from monsterhood themselves. Dean shook his
head. Vic was another one too soft-hearted for his own good, for God's sake….
Dean pushed away from the chain link and headed back out into the hall, where
he heard them before he saw them, the demons, the real reason they were there.
There was a Boss, maybe two top echelons with him. They were tricked out in
bankers' bodies. Respectable, average, low-key guys—two hundred dollar
haircuts, skinny suits, buffed wingtips—not the kind of guys who should be
covered in blood and wearing guts like streamers. The trio boiled down the
hall, heedless of the humans in their way and careless of the power they
discharged, snapping and crackling in the air.
They rolled on, made straight for the pool. They broke through agents and dogs,
pulverized bone and shredded flesh like paper, intent on the fighters crouched
at the bottom. The casualties around them were incidental; Dean saw they were
only focused on the pool. They were like supremely vicious toddlers
concentrating on what they wanted and the hell with everything else. He heard
bones crack and a kid folded up like a broken puppet, dead before he hit the
floor. Dean tried to pull his Colt loose; even knowing it wouldn’t do a damn
thing, he couldn’t just stand there, watch the horror unfold. The shrieking
escalated but Dean got the sense death was not the object here—the demons were
trying to get those kids out, steal them away from SMAC's hold. No way would
that happen, not as long as he breathed—
Henriksen and Reidy reached the same conclusion. They might not be able to stop
them by normal means but they had a weapon that would end them, destroy them
forever.
Dean stifled a flinch at a sudden blare of sound. Latin poured out of a
loudspeaker, but it wasn't the exorcism Dean expected to hear. Caleb appeared
at his side from out of nowhere, one side of his face swollen and promising a
hell of a show later, blood smeared across his chin and making his grin
macabre. Caleb jerked his chin at the air. "Holding spell. Lock them in until—"
A shot rang out and Dean wondered for a brief second who was stupid enough to
think that would do the job when the demon who'd been shot dropped like a
stone, fire crackling under its skin. "Well, fuck me," Dean breathed and
watched Elkins appear at the edge of the pool, that Patterson Colt held high,
its barrel smoking. One of the other demons tried to jump out of the pool, one
of the kids hanging over its shoulder like a sack of flour—it went down when
gunshot from the agents blew its knees out. It dropped the kid, who flopped to
the concrete and lay without moving and Elkins put a shot from the Colt into
that demon as well. The last demon, the demon Dean had pegged as the boss,
seemed to be enjoying the hell out of the bloody chaos. It cursed and laughed,
waded through the remaining crowd. It took Dean way too long to figure out the
demon had a specific kid tagged—it dragged the tallest kid out of the pool with
him, gripping him by his neck. The kid's arms windmilled as he tried to break
the demon's grip; his mouth was open wide but no sound came out….
The demon swept his hand through the air like he was brushing flies away and
most of the agents left went flying, tumbling and crashing into each other.
"Amateurs. You can't handle me, you can't lock me in, or exorcise me, or any
other penny ante act you pull out of your asses—" It stopped, raised its head
and sniffed. Its sulfur-yellow eyes locked on Dean, piercing him. It laughed,
and in that moment Dean knew.
"Well, well, well…," it said. "As I live and somewhat breathe, darling Dean
Winchester. Look at our distinguished company Samyaza. I remember you, boy, and
your father. And oh yes, your baby brother, he was so much fun to play with. It
took him a long time to die, Dean. A very long time." It laughed again and
kicked the kid to the floor, putting its foot on his neck. "Say good bye to
Dean Winchester, Samyaza, maybe you'll meet again in Hell someday."
 
Azazel. Dean was certain down to his marrow; it was Azazel, the demon who'd
targeted his family for some unimaginable reason. Rage, hatred so fierce and
consuming it was almost transcendent, poured into Dean, taking his breath away
with the desire, the need, to make Azazel pay for the horror he'd made of
Dean's life.
Something was tugging at him, demanding attention. Dean swiveled, ready to tear
a piece out of someone. It was Elkins, pushing something at him, jabbing him
with it. The Colt. "You're owed this; I'm not taking it from you—for John,
finest hunter ever walked, for your mother," the man rasped into Dean's ear.
Dean nodded, that would have to do as thanks. He grabbed the gun from Elkins
and drew a bead on the demon.
The expression Azazel turned on Dean when he saw the gun was lazy, amused.
"Really, Dean? Who are you kidding—do you get what it means to be me? I'm a
Duke of Hell—that laughable little popgun's not gonna do a damn thing to me."
"Duke of Hell?" Dean aimed, fired, and Azazel shouted out in pain and shock.
His leg went out from under him, blood pouring from his thigh, drenching the
kid still trapped under him. Fireworks crackled under the skin of his thigh.
"Yeah, that doesn't mean shit to me," Dean said and put a blessed slug through
one mustard yellow eye.
Dean dropped the gun and stared at the resulting light show, waiting for the
release—the sense of freedom he'd always anticipated would be his when he got
his revenge—but there was nothing. All it meant was that the demon was dead and
he was the last Winchester standing…alone.
                                      =+=
Dean made his way through the main part of the building, headed downwards into
the basement where the holding cells were. It was depressing, the harsh light
and deep shadows, the smell—stale air, floor wax and disinfectant, people with
uncertain hygienic skills….
One of the cops stood when Dean flashed his badge and led him through the maze
of desks. The offices were noisy, voices clashed and beat against each other,
the rapid-fire click-click-click of keys and whir of copiers only pointed out
how odd it was when he finally stood in front of the holding cell they'd locked
the kids up in. It was quiet—so quiet it was creepy. There should have been
crying, shouting, demands to be let free, for some kind of explanation, but
there was only the occasional quiet gasp or sob. There was the scrape of their
feet against the concrete, metallic click when they hit the bars. Dean noticed
the tattoos under their eyes, on their shoulders. He couldn’t make out what
they were. He smiled at one, a girl who glanced over at him, she jerked back
like he'd spit at her.
The kids kept moving like…like neurotic wolves. They sat, then stood, then
circled the cell, then sat again for a second or two before doing it all over
again. All of this without a word. Dean wanted to grab the bars and shout at
them, 'Make noise, fucking yell, beg—something!'…be human….
The tension in the air was so thick Dean felt it skitter over his skin. It
wasn't just him that the kids were weirding out; they were affecting the whole
room, judging by the way the cops gave the holding cell a wide berth. Dean
scowled, but kept his feeling about that to himself. He might not like that the
cops acted like the kids weren't people, but he supposed it was understandable.
More than likely, those kids had been possessed briefly multiple times. A thing
like that left a stain that never really faded, in the body and the mind. When
the feds tested those kids, they'd find something like markers in their blood,
identical to those in demon blood. In "normal" cases, it didn't actually mean
much. Anyone taken even briefly showed markers for some time after
possession…that and nightmares forever. It took a bit for their humanity to
reclaim all the corners of their psyches, and at some unconscious level, other
humans seemed to sense it.
Still there was something more than that going on with this ragged group of
kids, Dean was willing to bet on that. It was the way these kids behaved, how
they reacted, or didn't react…Dean felt how wrong it was, how off in a
different sort of way.
He looked back towards the office, away from the kids. Watched the cops eye the
kids like they were certified monsters. Eyed the blood crusted on their bodies,
flesh gummed under their nails…more. The cops heard alien grunts and sighs, saw
the way the kids' hands moved secretly against each other. They'd seen the way
the dogs cut these kids out of the crowd—the human-scenting dogs, who growled
at the kids even as they moved them to safety, vibrating with the conflicting
urge to attack and to protect. Dean saw it in the men's eyes: growing disbelief
that the kids were human. Dean knew that first instinctive reaction to the
unknown—fear—was slowly twisting in on itself and becoming hatred.
 
One of the kids, a boy who looked like he couldn't have gone a round with a
girl scout let alone a supe, fixed him with a glare. His eyes were filled with
hatred, bright with tears until he finally dropped his chin to the thin,
scarred arms curled around his legs. The girl fell to her knees and wrapped her
arms around the seemingly frail scrap of boy as the other boy, the dark-skinned
one, crowded against his other side.
Maybe they weren't exactly human anymore, but they weren't monsters. Not to
Dean.
The tallest kid looked up at Dean's approach and growled. It was the one who'd
fought the dogs—the same kid Azazel had tried to remove from the pool. Dean
wondered why he wasn't isolated instead of in the cell with the others. Dean
moved a little closer to the bars and Tall Kid jumped in front of the skinny
kid and girl, gave Dean a deadly look as he did so. Dean held his hands up,
palms out to the boy and empty. I'm no threat.
The kid settled, a snarl turning what looked like maybe a sweet face under the
grime and gore to something really unsettling—monstrous. Kid was crisscrossed
with welts and bleeding scratches from the dogs' claws. He'd looked terrified
when those dogs had been set on them, triply so when the Monster Squad opened
fire on the real freaks. He'd looked scared shitless and still he'd jumped into
the fight, trying to protect, so he thought, the other kids. Quietly,
desperately. The Irish wolfhound mixes SMAC used looked a lot like small
cousins of hellhounds…Dean didn't want to know how the kids knew what
hellhounds looked like. He wished he didn't know; curse that fucking government
witch and her fucking idea of what help entailed.
The kid pinned him with a diamond-hard glare, growled low and steady, and Dean
wondered whose kid he'd been. Had he been a fat, happy little toddler, a normal
kid who loved cartoons and camp-outs and Lucky Charms? Had his parents looked
for him? Or had he been one of those kids sold for whatever it was his parents
thought was worth sending their kids to hell for? Dean shook his head. Couldn't
think like that.
Monster Squad's guys eventually came in and herded the little group out of the
cage and into an empty conference room. The chairs and desks were pushed
against the walls to make room and everyone was armed to the teeth. The Monster
Squaders were talking quietly; Caleb came into the room and stood behind Dean.
"They don’t know what to do with this group," he said.
The three boys and the girl jittered in the new space…still silent, but their
hands skittered, in the air and against each other's bodies. They grimaced and
sniffed and jerked and looked even more fucking unearthly under the softer
lights of the conference room.
"What's to figure out? Do what they always do—doctor them up, look for
relatives…"
Caleb shrugged, looked uncomfortable. When he spoke, his voice was pitched to
Dean's ears only. "They're thinking about…neutralizing them."
"What—they're kids—"
"Look at them, Dean. They're…different. I mean really different. Shit, the
black kid's practically a were—look at his skin, he's covered with silver burns
from washing out were bites. They act like a pack—like Vic's hounds. They're
fucked up, Dean. They ruined forever for normal kinda lives. "
One of the agents, glancing at the way the kids huddled up against the wall,
sauntered closer. He banged hard on one of the metal desks, grinned like an
asshole and then like a double asshole, mock-lunged at Tall Kid. Dean was
already moving to put himself between the startled boy and the damn idiot fed
when the boy dropped to the ground. Dean thought it was fear made him hit the
deck, but the second he touched ground, the kid rolled forward and snapped a
kick at the agent's knee when the idiot moved into range. Dean heard a pop and
the asshole went down, yowling—seconds later, the kid had his teeth in the
man's throat. Dean was shocked into freezing for a second. He hadn't expected
anything that violent and cursed himself for a fool—they all should have been
expecting something like this—
The room exploded—the other kids were brought down and tied up—Dean heard
multiple snap, snap, snaps of tranq guns going off. Overturning desks and
chairs, warning shouts, the startled yelps of the kids—the riot of noise almost
masked the sound of the boy moaning around his mouthful of flesh—Dean was
repulsed before he realized the sound was pure pain.
Dean stood in the middle of chaos and felt helpless and useless.
                                      =+=
The agent was just fine in the end. A little bloody, a little freaked out, but
he'd survive. Hand clutched against his wound, he kicked the sedated boy in the
head before he was dragged, cursing, out of the room. The kid didn't even
grunt. He was out like a light. Dean narrowed his eyes at the soon to be ex-
SMAC agent, visible in the doorway and still trying to make excuses for what
was a fucking stupid, rookie move. Dean didn't waste a moment feeling sorry for
the dick who'd just crashed and burned his own career. Dean darted an angry
look at Caleb and got a roll of the eyes.
"Corral that bleedin' heart of yours, 'Cheeks." Caleb said. "It's just gonna
make trouble for you."
"Fuck you, asshole—I can see they ain't a pack of fuzzy puppies. They're gonna
cart them all off to—to—wherever. Not my problem…"
"Oh now, see, the minute you say that, I kin see the wheels turnin', " Caleb
groaned. He looked at the kids, tumbled on the floor, handcuffed, drugged.
"Son, they're not killin' those kids. You know Vic. What’s gonna happen is
they'll end up in some damn government facility, with a bunch of brain
tinkerers. Still fucked, poor bastards. Damn shitty luck."
"Fuckin' got that right," Dean grunted and felt oddly warmed that Caleb shared
his view on the poor little fucks. Little fucks who probably each had a higher
body count than he did.
                                      =+=
After they'd resettled the kids and taken the asshole fed away, and Dean had
locked away his gear, he realized Henriksen still hadn't called for him so he
went looking for Henriksen himself. Dean found him in a small office
temporarily labeled as SMAC.
Henriksen was hunched over a big, age-scarred metal desk, one lone lamp casting
a puddle of light on a scattered pile of papers in front of him. He was
scowling down at a report clutched in his hand. He looked like he hadn't moved
for quite some time. "Oh, it's you," he said when he looked up, catching Dean's
eyes.
"Yeah, me. Say, Vic, what’s up with the rumors 'bout SMAC wanting to gank those
kids?"
"Fuckin' hell, don't listen to stupid shit, D. Nobody's killin' no kids on my
watch…" Henriksen rubbed his shirt sleeve across his face. "But…I'm not gonna
lie, Winchester. It's bad. Looks like they weren't just fighting monsters
against humans. They were feeding these kids blood, I mean, demon blood. It's
all through them, their blood looks like they're possessed. One's a fucking
skinwalker, one's almost a werewolf and from what we can get out of the pack
leader—he calls himself that," Henriksen snapped when Dean tried to cut in—"
the Owner, Azazel, made them that way. Turned them kids into…not monsters,
really. Something. I don’t know. Worse? Guess them Fallen bastards thought it'd
be fun to have some brand new kinda monster to fight."
Dean made a distressed noise, his gut flipping. "Who'd even wanna do something
like that?" Azazel, whispered a voice in his mind, that's who. For whatever
reason, he'd poisoned those kids until they were barely human. Made
them…weapons, mindless slaves. Dean had seen some godawful stuff in his years
but this was so…so fucked up in its deliberate and systematic cruelty. So
sadistic and just plain—
Henriksen tossed a handful of glossy photos onto the desk. "They fed those kids
through the meat grinder. Until what was left—who was left—was tempered like
steel. They made perfect killing machines."
Dean growled. He'd never seen demons cooperate with each other in this way
before. Generally they seemed intent on destroying themselves and others. They
couldn't begin to gang up without ripping each other to shreds. So why this
time? How had Azazel managed to do that? "Did any 'suits survive?"
Henriksen grunted, shook his head. "Exorcised clean as we could. Saved some,
already salted and burned those we couldn't. We burned a lot. Managed to keep a
demon to interrogate." Henriksen looked an uncomfortable combination of sad and
angry. Dean knew how he felt about interrogating demons but…it was what it was.
"So far, no answers. No track, no trace in computers, papers, just a bunch of
dead monsters and some monstrous kids. I'm waiting for the SMAC interrogators
to arrive." He said it in the same tone some would use in expectation of a rain
of cockroaches.
Dean nodded. Henriksen was a hard guy, a tough guy. He was a badass from way
back. But torture was something he couldn't stomach, bad guys, monsters or not.
Sure, he'd tune 'em up a bit, anybody would, but professional torture turned
both their stomachs. It was hard to see SMAC's experts as anything approaching
regular guys. Henriksen glanced up at Dean and his eyes were so deep, so
dark…it was clear the man had reached the end of whatever reserves he had. He
was about a hot minute from face-planting, and all the caffeine in the world
wasn't gonna help. Judging from the forest of cups on Henriksen's desk, he'd
given it his best try. Henriksen leaned back in his chair, scrubbed at his
face, forgetting he was holding a report in his hand, and cursed as he crushed
the paper against his tired eyes.
"Ow, damnit, fuck…anyway, the kids're tattooed. Their names…and something, info
of some kind. Under their eyes. On their shoulders. Their backs. They won't
speak to us. All of them use some sort of sign language that must have been
something they taught each other, because no one at the station understands it.
We're sending out for—" Henriksen stopped, inhaled deep and let it out slow.
"Help. Fuck, we need so much damn help... "
Dean nodded and reached across the desk. He grabbed Henriksen's hand and pulled
so that he was nearly spread across the top of the metal desk, crushing and
shedding files as Dean pulled him close.
"On the clock, dude, what the hell—"
"Shut up, asshole."
The kiss was a little sour, flavored with coffee and exhaustion, but
Henriksen's lips were soft and gave so quick to Dean's slight pressure, he knew
Henriksen needed out, some down time, some forgetfulness. It stayed slow,
though, press and ease. They moved, lips shifting and searching for that
perfect fit, warm roll of tongue against tongue, a little teeth, little scrape
against plush, warm, sensitive inner skin—and then Henriksen pulled back with a
groan. "God damn, Winchester. No time for this."
"You feel a little more awake now, don’t you?"
Henriksen glared at him—and then laughed. It was quieter than normal, and that
smart-ass grin didn't quite surface all the way, but it was better, Henriksen
looked better. "Go home and get some sleep while you can, Dean. Tomorrow's
gonna be a whole 'nother day," Henriksen said, and Dean was pretty sure he
meant a whole new shitstorm of a day.
                                      =+=
Dean heard a high-pitched scream rolling through the corridors as he made his
way back to the office Henriksen had taken over. Last night, all the shit going
on had over-whelmed him, knocked him into the dark spaces in his dreams the
minute he hit the bed. Today, he wanted answers…and he wanted to personally
check on those kids.
Dean bypassed Henriksen's temporary office when he was nowhere to be found and
ended up outside the slightly open door to what was labeled Interrogation Room
1. It didn't take the harsh scream clawing at the air to let Dean know just
what was going on in that room right at the moment, something SMAC considered a
necessary evil. He opened it wider and grimaced. He was right—the room held one
demon chained to a metal chair and two men. Gordon Walker and another SMAC
agent Dean didn’t know.
Gordon was elbow deep in blood and, apparently, that's what it took to get him
in a good mood. "Winchester, you're just in time. We’re about to see if we can
get some answers. Feel free to sit in, if you want. Agent Henriksen declined,"
Gordon said, and it was plain what he thought of that.
His partner said, "Henriksen's got delicate sensibilities." And Gordon smiled
at that, a beautiful, cheerful smile that lit up his face. Gordon smiling never
failed to startle Dean…it was a sweet smile, the look of a mischievous little
boy, so at odds with who he knew Gordon to be, completely out of place in the
little slice of hell the interrogation room had become.
The chair the demon was tied to sat on a Solomon's seal. Another seal was drawn
on the ceiling above the bound demon. The room smelled of burning flesh and
fresh blood. There was a lock-in sigil on the thing's chest, not healed but not
new—this was the demon he'd seen being shoved into a warded van last night. It
was going nowhere. It couldn't be exorcised, but it couldn't flee either. The
only way out was Elkin's Colt—or something Dean had thought was a damn fable.
He bit down on a gasp at the sight of a silver blade, cradled in shock foam, on
the table. It looked like a short, slim, sword lacking a crossguard.
There'd been claims that a magic demon killing sword had turned up in SMAC's
armament a few years ago, but like most he'd called it bullshit. There'd been
no word on where they came from or how the FBI came up with them, they
just…magically came to exist. The claim was that they killed a lower-level
demon completely—just like the magic-enhanced Colt had destroyed Azazel
completely. It was…overwhelming. For so long, they'd been essentially
weaponless and now…Dean wondered what the new weapons meant for Hunters. For
people.
He left the office, not any more eager to see Gordon work than Henriksen was.
He could hear Gordon's soft chuckling behind him. He was going to find
Henriksen and grill him about that weapon and then, he was going to see if he
and Henriksen could see eye to eye about different things….
Dean caught up with Henriksen as he was shrugging on his coat, about to leave
for the evening. The only light in the tiny office came from a desk lamp that
had seen better days—it threw shadows over Henriksen's face. Dean could only
clearly see the frown that pulled the corners of Henriksen's mouth down. They
stood staring at each other for a minute and then, Henriksen sighed heavily and
stepped forward, the lamp lighting his whole face. Dean could see Henriksen
looked tired, uncertain and unhappy. He ran a hand over his mouth and peered at
Dean. Finally he gave Dean a lopsided smile. "I'm out," he said. "They got this
and I don’t need to be here right now. I'm gonna eat, and then crash the fuck
out. You comin'?"
Dean shrugged himself. "Sure." He reached over the desk and snapped the lamp
off. He trailed silently behind Henriksen, got in the passenger side of the SUV
he drove and got out with him at his hotel. "Hunh. Nice. Nicer than anyplace
I've ever stayed."
"Yeah, that ain't sayin' much, Winchester. Grab a bag, make yourself useful."
"Fuck you," Dean muttered and grabbed Henriksen's briefcase and a backpack from
the backseat. He rode the elevator up with him, respecting Henriksen's apparent
need for silence. When they came to the proper floor, Henriksen stalked off,
leaving Dean to trot after him. "What am I, your servant?"
Henriksen finally cracked a smile as he unlocked the door. "Put that stuff in
the closet."
"What the fuck dude, you really are a bossy bitch—unh!"
Henriksen knocked Dean up against the wall, leaned until his hips were pressed
into him, staring up at him from an inch away. "We're gonna eat and then we're
gonna fuck and then…we'll see. Got it?"
Dean nodded. "Sure. You only had to say…"
Henriksen rolled away from Dean, laughing. "Why've you always gotta be such an
asshole, D?"
"As I've heard, that's one of the good things about me." Dean spread himself
across the bed, and grinned at Henriksen. "So. Spill."
Henriksen held up his hand, tossed Dean a plastic menu card from the room's
desk. "Choose a damn place to get some grub from," he said. "Your government's
treat."
"My favorite kind," Dean grinned.
Not much later, they had dinner spread over the room's table. Between them sat
a couple of cardboard boats of takeout ribs, alongside cornbread and macaroni
and cheese steaming gently in their containers. Their elbows were planted in a
nest of napkins and they were chasing bites with gulps of the local beer. Dean
was watching Henriksen suck sauce off his fingers and play it up just a bit.
"Idiot," Dean snorted. Still, it was damn good sauce. There was an argument to
be made for wet ribs.
They were clean down to the bone, nothing left but empty cartons and Dean was
flicking cornbread crumbs off his fingers when Henriksen crumbled his napkin,
laid it on the table and said, "Well."
"Well?"
"SMAC sent the DNA samples off to the lab—super rush-rush. We should know by
tomorrow if any of those kids got family looking for them."
"That fast? Well, aren't you a Boss?" Dean leaned back, crossed his feet at the
ankles. Smirked when Henriksen told him to shut the fuck up. "Whatever. What's
in line for those kids if no family turns up for 'em, dude?"
"Nothing good, I won't lie," Henriksen said. "There's a place in DC that
they'll more'n likely end up at. It won’t be bad as it could be for them, but I
can't pretend it'll be anything like home."
Dean sighed. "Well, gotta be better than what they had."
"Yeah," Henriksen said but Henriksen didn't sound like he was much convinced
from the tone of it, and neither was Dean. Still, nothing he could do. He
wasn't equipped to drag a bunch of fucked up kids around with him, wasn't
prepared to begin to know how to help. Bobby would shoot his eyes out if he
rolled up to Singer Salvage with a bunch of orphan killer pups…
"You gonna keep an eye on them, Vic?"
"Are you crazy? How'm I gonna find time to watch out for a bunch of-of—I got
shit to do, Winchester, a division to run."
Which meant, of course, that Henriksen would break his back to make sure those
kids got the best they could expect. Dean nodded and relaxed a bit. All right.
He stood, swept the table clean and turned the TV up, flicked through channels
until he found a game, any game. He smiled at Henriksen. "So…still tired?"
                                      =+=
Dean was spread across the bed, Henriksen laying so only their legs touched,
head on his crossed arms. He loved fucking, and he loved just lying there
after, kind of sleepy and maybe enjoying the heat of another body tucked
against his, warm and pliant…it wasn't cuddling, not really, it was…
"Hey, D…? What's it like being the son of a legend?"
…it was nice until right this moment, Dean thought and growled, "Where the hell
did that come from? Did I fuck your brains out?"
Henriksen slapped Dean's stomach, ignored Dean's yelp of outrage. "I was just
thinking, if it hadn't been for your dad—and your other, I mean, Singer—anyway,
if those two hadn't been clipped in that demon-possessed town that night, and
if the FBI hadn't come running as soon as their arrest came up on the wire—"
"God damn, if you were thinking about that, than I sure wasn't doing my job."
He swatted the pillow Henriksen aimed at his head aside with a grin but truth
to tell, Henriksen's question did kind of get under his skin. What was it like?
It wasn't like anything—it just was. Legends. Right. It wasn't like he hadn't
heard the story a hundred times. How the feebs and those two then-young hunters
had stood off a demon invasion, how a big time demon player got wiped off the
map. How eyes were opened wide and the whole world changed.
"The best thing ever happened was the FBI setting up a monster killing unit and
pulling you cowboys in on it, admit it."
"Yeah, maybe so, but you should hear Bobby, he's got serious thoughts on the
subject." Dean did chuckle thinking of his adopted father, red-faced and
ranting about the damn government sponsored panty-waist hunters stinking up the
planet these days, present company excepted because at least Dean knew what he
was doing and had a head on his shoulders. Dean snorted softly. Yeah, Bobby
Singer, first director and liaison for the newly cobbled together Hunters Guild
and the then-infant SMAC. Dean just wished all this had worked out to his dad's
benefit. John died not long after the FBI had approached him and Bobby about
coordinating Hunters and the FBI's new monster unit. He'd taken the initial
steps with Bobby, but died chasing after another clue he swore led to what
killed Sammy, the little brother who'd died like their mom, in a fire John
swore up and down some Boss Demon set…for some unaccountable reason.
Dean sighed. All that running, all that looking…what a waste. Dean knew, and he
knew John had known it as well—Dean was the reason they'd lost Sam. Dean was
the one who'd left him to die.
Henriksen yanked the blankets down the bed, stripping them off Dean and
knocking him out of the worsening spiral of his thoughts; he was grinning in
that way that meant business. "Giddyup, cowboy," he said, so Dean did what he
did best—shut out anything that wasn't in the here and now. Besides, he needed
to wipe the damn smirk straight off Henriksen's face, cocky bastard.
"God, you ever fuck anyone but me, because smooth is not your middle name."
"Nah, my middle name is," and Henriksen threw his head back, moaned, "Oh god oh
Jesus, more, more." Dean grabbed the pillow Henriksen had tossed at him and
smacked him in the face with it. "Ask me why I put up with this abuse,"
Henriksen muttered and rolled onto Dean.
"I'll show you," Dean said, and opened his mouth over Henriksen's soft dick,
held it and enjoyed the feeling of it growing, the warm weight sliding over his
tongue and nudging the back of his throat, the smell, the taste of Henriksen
and the promise of sex making him hard. This was good; this was what he waited
for—the aftermath of a good hunt, someone who liked him, who wanted him, in bed
with him. A guy who had history with him. Henriksen, Caleb…they knew him, kept
him grounded and let him know he was alive, like Henriksen shoving his dick
into Dean's throat with a deep, rumbling moan. Dean scrubbed his tongue over
the head of Henriksen's dick, teased his tongue into the slit, where it was
warmer and smoother and made Henriksen yelp and buck up. Dean throat hurt, but
in a good way. He ground down against the mattress, too turned on sucking
Henriksen to touch himself. Henriksen would take care of that later—he was damn
considerate that way.
"Oh yeah," Henriksen breathed, "that's why I do…."
                                      =+=
When he got back to the motel the next morning, Caleb was waiting for him,
packed bags at the door.
"What the fuck, Caleb. I thought we were headed back to South Dakota together,
man."
"Dude, 'Cheeks—I'm gonna run down to Florida with Shane Mackey, y'know? You
don’t like Florida and I know you miss yer pop, and…hey. Vic's here. You guys
wanna catch up, right? I mean, do some more catching up."
Dean narrowed a look at Caleb, and Caleb lowered his eyes. "You're running, you
son of a bitch. Something happened and you're running from it. What? They're
gonna kill those kids? Is that it?"
"No! No, that's not it."
Dean cocked his head at Caleb, considered before drawling, "You jealous? You're
not jealous…?"
"Hell, no." Caleb twisted a smile at Dean. "Well. Maybe. A little. Know I ain't
get much right, but..." Caleb shrugged. "Don't pay me no mind. We'll meet up
before Christmas, right? Like usual?"
Dean scrubbed a hand across his neck. "'Course. Yeah…listen, Caleb…"
"Dean, shut up. You're good, I'm good—we're good. We'll always be good,
y'hear?"
"Yeah. Okay. Hey, if you need help, you get in touch, you hear? Don’t take off
after something with no backup."
"And by no backup you mean without you, Dean Winchester, the unstoppable, the
invincible."
Dean laughed, and the tension fled, back on their usual easy footing again.
They hugged, and Dean walked Caleb out to Shane's truck. Shane tipped his cap
to Dean, and Caleb swung his bag in the back, winked at Dean and Dean watched
the truck pull away.
Well, fuck. He might as well pack up too, he thought. He was just loading his
bag into the car when he got a call. "Come on down to the cop house," Henriksen
said. "We gotta talk."
                                      =+=
Dean strolled into Henriksen's office. Carl and Henriksen were both there,
along with someone Dean didn't know. He cocked an eyebrow at Henriksen, who
rose from his seat, nothing but business in his expression, but something off
in his eyes.
"Dean, this is Agent Wilton. He's got some information for you, something
pertaining to those kids."
Wilton stood and shook Dean's hand. "Mr. Winchester. It's a pleasure to meet
you."
Dean nodded. "So what's so important you're back at work—and forcing me back
in?" He meant it half-joking but that look in Henriksen's eyes unsettled him;
he had the feeling whatever it was, was huge in a bad way.
"Dean…" Henriksen began, and then kind of sagged. He gestured for Wilton to
hand Dean the files he held.
"That's the DNA report on the children out there," Wilton said. "We found only
one match. The report proves that one of them is related…to you, Hunter
Winchester."
"What? What the hell are you going on about, there's no way—"
Henriksen broke in. "Sit down, Dean."
Dean dropped into a chair. "There's no fucking way, Henriksen. There is no
other family. Dad was an only child and his mom and dad died long before me or
Sam were born…same thing on my mom's side. There's no one. No other siblings.
Just." He swallowed and his eyes burned. "No one."
Wilton swallowed, darted a glance at Henriksen, who sat stone faced and
waiting. "There's no mistake. He matches the DNA on record for John Winchester,
and Dean—"
"I'm telling you, it's impossible," Dean shouted, but Henriksen grabbed him
before he could convince Wilton with his fists.
"It's the truth, Dean. He matches John and you. He's your brother. There's no
doubt about it. Full sibling, Dean. And we need to get him out of the facility
here. He killed one of those other kids last night, the 'walker. Broke his
neck. We're not sure why but—the attendants said he cried, and the girl's not
talking. I'm not saying he's dangerous, I don’t think he is, regardless of what
happened. And…the kid he killed was a monster, you know how that goes. But it's
better for him to be under the radar for a while."
"Which one?" Dean snarled, knowing it was a ridiculous question, none of them,
none of those kids could be Sam, none of them looked familiar—it just couldn't
be. "Which one's supposed to be my—my brother?"
Wilton shoved a picture across the desktop. "That one." It was the tall kid,
the long, lanky one who'd growled like a wolf and killed one of the dogs, and
now apparently killed one of the kids Dean thought he was fighting to protect.
This guy was supposed to be his brother? The picture was grainy and the focus
was bad, but….
Henriksen was too fucking sympathetic and it was getting on Dean's nerves. His
stomach tightened and roiled unpleasantly and he was afraid he might have to
grab the wastebasket that sat under Henriksen's desk. "They called this one
Samyaza," Henriksen said, all soft tone and welling eyes and—
"Samyaza?" Dean blinked; the room did a little sideways kind of shimmy.
"Samya—Sam—?"
***** Sam *****
[part 2]
1988
A hand reached in the box and yanked the boy out, scraping knees over rough,
unfinished wood.
"Well, what the fuck we got here?" The voice was loud, bellowing what was not
really a question, and the boy knew that and kept his mouth shut. He'd learned
to be quiet as fuck the last few days. He shivered as the big hand around his
neck tightened.
"You're dirty and you stink. Smell like piss and fireplaces. Where did they
snatch you up from?" The hand twisted the boy's face from side to side. The
cold blue eyes searched out everything, from the way the boy looked to the way
he stood, the way he tried to hide in plain sight. The man holding him sniffed
again and made a face. "You shit in the box, you little hairless ape."
The boy dropped his head as best he could around the tight grip. Of course he
shit in the box—they hadn't let him out of it in days. He'd peed in the box,
yeah, he'd shit in it. And if his dad was here, he'd kill this scum bag without
a thought. The boy peered at the man and whispered, "Christo."
The man surprised him by laughing, long and loud. "Oh fuck me, that's too
goddamn funny—hunters, man. Walk the fucking earth like they own it. Well,
looks like getting the feds behind you bastards didn't do much for you, hunh,
kid?" The man grinned wider and squeezed until the boy's pulse beat in his
eyes, his mouth. Black edged in from the corners of the room, rushing in to
blind him. "I'm human, you little ape. Human, human, human. I just really like
my job."
He dropped the boy, who immediately rolled into a ball, trying to save himself
from the boots he figured were coming next.
"Tell you what, little shit-ape. This here is going to be your new home. No,
let me make myself clear. Your new home will be wherever I am. And who am I,
you're asking…or maybe not, you look kinda stupid. Who I am is your Uncle Luke.
The only family you got now."
The boy jerked and unrolled, screaming, "You're not my family—my dad's going to
find you and kill you, and my brother too! Just wait, my dad's gonna come
looking for me and—" The crack as the man's fist hit his cheekbone deafened
him; the pain made everything go sparkly and bright, and tears shot out of his
eyes.
"Well, see, here's the thing. That fire—you remember that fire, don't you?"
The boy was already shaking his head, no, no, no—
"Killed everybody, kid. Your dad, your brother….all dead. We capped them and
left them inside the house to burn—"
"No! You're lying—"
"Oh yeah. Dead as doornails. Crispy critters. Be Daddy briquettes now, Brother
toast. And you, you're nobody. You're shit, you're muh little ass ape now. As
far as the world's concerned, Sam Winchester is dead, just like the rest of the
Winchesters."
Shivers ran through the boy's body, sweat broke out between his shoulder blades
and trickled, cold and clammy, down his spine. He tried to hold on to himself
but his arms wouldn't work. His knees gave out and he dropped to the cold, damp
concrete floor. He kept falling, straight down into the grey, silent cloud
stuffing his head. At first, he could barely feel the fists working him over
but eventually the pain brought him back, until he cried out, begged with all
his heart for the man to please, please stop. When the man shoved him back in
the box, nearly face down in his own shit, it felt like a reprieve.
He curled into a ball and cried and cried. He hurt, but just his body, not his
spirit. He just had to wait. Dean wasn't dead. Dad wasn't dead. They'd find him
because that's what family did, they looked out for each other, that's what
Dean always said. They kept each other safe….
                                      =+=
                                  April 1988
"Go on boys, bring the bags in. I'm gonna pull the car around the back."
Dean and Sam took hesitant steps up to the tiny porch, a seeming afterthought
pasted on the front of a small, sad, cottage. The porch roof was sway-backed,
looked as if a single harsh breath would knock it loose, and Dean eyed it like
he'd eye a supernatural thing crawling out of the woodwork. The door yawed a
bit; the cheery sky blue color the cottage must have been once was now a dreary
slate. On each side of the street, similar houses slumped. The whole
neighborhood looked tired and defeated. Dean bit his lip. It was all so
different now. He still remembered a white house and a yard full of pretty
flowers, how sunlight filled all the rooms…but that was a long time ago, and he
was certain only he remembered that a house could be like that. He tightened
his grip on his little brother's hand.
Sam of course picked up on Dean's reluctance and came to a stop. He pulled,
trying to get Dean to let go of his hand. When Sam glanced over his shoulder
and saw John's look of exasperation, he pulled harder and dug his little heels
into the ground. "I don't wanna go in there." His high, little boy voice
carried clearly in the chilly autumn air.
"Sam…" John took a deep breath, held it for a few counts. "Sam, I wouldn't let
you or Dean go in if it wasn't safe."
Dean turned to look at John, and John felt a flicker of dismay when his trusted
little soldier gave him a look full of…not exactly disbelief but not exactly
trust. John took a step back and looked—really looked—at the place he was
asking his children to live in for the next few weeks. It was…pretty awful. The
guy who'd rented it to him had told him it was sound, just not…pretty.
He sure hadn't been kidding.
Another sigh slipped out as John dropped the bags on the ground next to the
car. He walked up to the porch, rubbing his knuckles over sleep-crimped hair as
he passed the boys. "Wait here," he said.
He stomped into the narrow room meant to be a living room. When he patted the
back of the old plaid sofa hunkered down in the middle of the room, a little
puff of dust greeted him. The floorboards bounced—he held his breath and
stomped harder, but besides also giving up their little wisps of dust, they
held. John strode into the kitchen, still stomping. He was sure he could hear
Sam at the front door giggling, and felt a little better.
He stomped and huffed, and played it up a bit for his boys. The end result was
good. Nothing gave. Thank God. The cabinets had doors and looked fairly clean.
The drawers were lined with newspaper, also clean. The oven worked, the door
screeched like it was being tortured but it opened, and whooshed to life when
he turned the knobs. Also good.
He felt little eyes on his back and turned. His sons were following him, all
huge eyes and sharp cheekbones. Dean's wrists hung out from the bottom of his
coat sleeves. Sam's fingers were drowned in the bottom of his. They looked
expectant now; Dean looked at John like he had the answers to everything and
John preened a bit, worried a bit, at the weight of faith once again in his
son's eyes. John waved them in, and they ran to his side and followed him,
inspecting every nook and cranny alongside him.
Sam pulled the fridge door open and the fridge was cold inside and smelled of
lemons. John reached over his head and opened the freezer—inside were a couple
of ice trays, with a few cubes in each. John nodded, like a doctor examining a
patient and finding him well. The boys nodded too. He stepped to the sink,
opened the faucets, cold first and then hot. Steam rose quickly in the chilly
air. Again, a nod. John cut his eyes to the boys and they nodded too.
They went as a group through each room, stomping and slamming doors, turning on
lights, running water in the bathroom….
They were back in the front room. John raised his eyebrows. "Boys?"
The boys were satisfied—Dean was satisfied. "Okay," he said, serious tone,
serious expression, like they'd just discussed some important issue and come to
an agreement, like grown men. "We'll get our bags. Ready, Sammy?"
John watched Sam, who watched Dean, the expression on his youngest son's face
said Dean hung the moon and lit the sun. John was a grown man and loved his
boys. But he wished that once, just once, Sam would lay the same kind of look
on him that he laid on Dean. He shook his head. There was a reason why Sam
looked to Dean like that, and the reason was John Winchester. How could John
blame Sam when every moment of his young life, he had passed him off to Dean?
He sighed. Spilt milk, he thought and herded the boys back out to the car.
John and his boys dragged their bags into the house, split them between the
rooms that would be theirs. They put away the few groceries they had, enough to
last them for a day or two. Dean made the beds and rustled up towels while John
made dinner and found where the plates and glasses and silverware were.
They ate hamburger and mac'n'cheese. Sam sat at the left side of the table and
swung his feet back and forth, wolfing down food and drinking big gulps of
milk. They hadn't stopped until they reached this little town, John having been
hell-bent to get out of Wisconsin. Dean asked no questions; he ate his dinner,
slightly slower than Sam. Sam met his eyes every few seconds and smiled, and
Dean smiled back. His smile was small, sweet and a little sad.
John wished he wasn't leaving come the weekend. He wished that he could put the
boys in school, find a job, settle down just a bit. Be normal. He sighed. The
best that he could do right now was try and make it back before Sam's birthday.
He took a bite of the mac and cheese and burger mess, and tried to figure out
how much longer the money in the boys' college fund would last.
"You boys clean up and get ready for bed. In the morning, I'll make pancakes."
Sammy raised his arms and crowed his pleasure. Pancakes were his favorite thing
to eat, and they didn't always get a chance to have them. Most of the time,
they had oatmeal or cereal. He thought this was just one more good thing about
the ugly but good little house. Dean eyed his dad, and wondered just how long
he was going to leave them alone this time. Pancakes usually meant a long time,
longer than Dean liked, anyway. He turned to watch Sam and Sam's pretty smile.
He was glad that Sam was still too young to put two and two together. He turned
back to his dad, and sighed like he'd heard his dad sigh, and for the same
reason. It wasn't long before Sam would catch on, and then what? What would his
dad do then?
"I count on you, Dean," his dad whispered, and Dean nodded, feeling his chest
go tight. It felt knotted up until Sam threw his arms around him and yelled,
"Tell me a bedtime story, Dean?"
He wrapped his arms around Sam and pulled him to the farthest room in the
house, their bedroom. "Yeah, 'course." He heard the creak, crack of the heat
coming on and thought that the ugly little house maybe wasn't so bad after all.
Besides, they'd only be there a couple of weeks. Didn't matter how ugly or not
it was, they'd be leaving soon enough.
 
John stayed three more days, making sure the boys were settled in, and left
after breakfast on Saturday, eating the guilt that bloomed in him at the sight
of his boys waving good-bye from the porch. Bundled up in the Salvation Army
pajamas, Goodwill slippers on their feet. Nine year old Dean, looking like a
tiny old man, his arm around Sammy, four years old, five in few days, and still
thinking the world was full of magical good things, certain of it because Dean
made it so. John drove with one eye on the road ahead and one eye behind…worry
joined fear until he killed them both. If the hunt went well, he and Bill could
get shitfaced drunk, and for a few hours at least, he'd feel like a normal
person. Or be unconscious, good enough.
                                      =+=
Dad left in the morning, after breakfast and packing and reading that weird
book he carried with him all the time. Dean helped him pack and kept Sam quiet
so Dad could concentrate on whatever it was he was reading and writing about.
The rest of the day went fairly quietly. Sammy was antsy from having to sit
still and be quiet for what was a long time, for a kid his age, so Dean ran him
ragged with games of Red Light Green Light, and Mother May I and Airplane. When
it got too cold to stay outside, they came in and sat close to the heat
register while he helped Sammy work on his ABCs. Sam insisted he wanted to
learn to read like Dean did when he went to school, so Dean promised Sam they'd
have their very own classes and Sam could learn whatever Dean did. Dean thought
it was cute, when it wasn't annoying, and Sam was pretty good at it—he was
starting to get that the letters meant something, that putting them together
made real words. Maybe he'd look for some workbooks at the Salvation Army store
when Dad came back…Sammy's birthday was coming and he'd probably like something
like that, the little geek....
They wrapped up the ABCs and Dean made soup and bologna and cheese sandwiches,
because Sammy liked bologna. At least for the moment, he did.
Now, it was after dinner, and bath time and story time, and Sam was a snoring
little bundle in the middle of the bed. Dean's arms hurt from airplaning, and
his feet hurt from Sam crashing into him and stomping all over his toes. The
fingers on his right hand hurt from burning them on the soup pot. He sat on the
couch, stuck stinging fingers in his mouth and flicked through the few channels
the TV got. He found an ancient cowboy movie and settled in to watch.
A funny crackling sound woke him, a smell of smoke. He shot upright; terrified
he'd left the soup pot on a hot burner. But the heat was coming down the short
hallway, and the light was coming from there too. There was a cracking, tearing
sound that he recognized was breaking wood, and he leaped up and ran towards
the hall, to Sam in the back bedroom. The flames shoved him back, the heat
seared him, made his eyes run and his cheeks burn. He was coughing and
coughing, panicking before his training kicked in. He ran out of the house and
right into the memory of the last time there was a fire. Sam's warm, spare
little weight in his arms. The sound of his dad screaming in his ears. The
trucks and people and the light and the smell of burning and the sound of wood
tearing, collapsing into the fire….
He was outside, without Sam, no Sam, where was Sam, he was supposed to be
holding Sam but he ran out and….
He'd left Sam in the fire, Sam was in the house. Dean screamed and ran back
towards the porch, the crappy little porch still hanging onto the ugly,
horrible, burning, little house. People shouted and held him back, they held
his arms and held him down and Sammy burned up all by himself in the house. And
then Dean was all alone and his dad was gone and didn’t know that Dean had
killed Sammy by running away like a coward.
When John met Bobby Singer at the hospital the next morning, Dean wasn't
speaking. John dropped to his knees and dug his fingers so deep into the skin
of his scalp he broke the skin. Blood ran down his temples as Bobby reminded
him he needed to be strong for Dean and that he was there for the both of
them…that this was a time to let bygones be bygones. "Go get your boy and come
on back with me. You're gonna need the help."
When John looked at Dean, a tiny boy with too much on his shoulders and the
absolute knowledge of death in his little boy eyes, John looked away. He turned
away so Dean couldn't see the guilt and sorrow and the sheer weight of self-
loathing in his own eyes.
Dean took it to mean his dad was disgusted by the sight of him.
He never forgot, and never forgave himself, and never believed that his dad
trusted him ever again.
                                      =+=
Sam came to forget that a man—men—with black eyes knocked his bedroom window
out of the wall, and sent a flood made of fire through his bedroom door and out
to the hall. He came to forget that he'd screamed for Dean to come. He forgot
that his dad hadn't been there, and forgot being forcibly shoved into a blanket
and swung over another man's shoulder, and how he'd thrown up into the blanket
because the man ran and bounced his bony shoulder against Sam's stomach. How
the blanket was wrapped around his head and he couldn't get away from the throw
up.
What he remembered was a fire and that his brother and dad died in it. Uncle
Luke said once that they'd died like idiots, trying to save him. Maybe. He
found that hard to believe—he couldn't see a reason why they would have died
for him. If they died, it was probably because they couldn't get out of the
house. The way Uncle Luke treated him, Sam knew he wasn't worth much except for
fighting.
Sometimes Sam thought that maybe *he'd* set the fire that killed his family
himself. Sam *had* killed a lot of people….
Uncle Luke thought he was stupid. But he wasn't. He was smart enough to walk
out of the ring every time. That counted. And he was smart enough to know that
he was worthless outside of the ring. And smart enough to know that his dad and
brother would have gotten rid of him anyway, eventually, because he held them
back, being so useless. The time came that all Sam remembered was that he had
no one besides Uncle Luke and The Owner. The things he knew besides fighting
and trying not to die weren't much. He knew his name, Sam; short for Samyaza,
he knew his ABC's and when it was dark, and he hurt and he couldn't sleep from
hurting, he said them over and over until he could. "My name is Sam and I know
my ABCs…A…B…C…D…E…A…N, my name is Sam and…."
                                   May 1988
There was a metal pan of food on the floor of the box when Sam woke up, that
and a big metal cup full of water.
Sam squirmed hard, almost gasping in pain. He wanted to eat and to drink, but
he had to pee so bad, and it stank of piss and shit in the box but he could
smell the food too and, and….
Sam squirmed back as far into the corner as he could, opened his shorts and
peed in the corner. His eyes watered and his nose burned, but he couldn't,
couldn't…he shuffled forward again, and dipped his fingers into the soft food.
It looked like mushy brown peas and he hated peas and mushy stuff, but his
stomach was almost flat with hunger pains. He sucked the glop off his fingers.
It tasted awful, but the minute it hit his tongue, a painful flare shot along
his jaws and he drooled, like the food was the best ever. He wolfed it down,
and drank and drank, refused to think of having to pee again later, or worse…
By the time the pan was polished clean and the cup was dry, the front of the
box came off. A man reached in and dragged him out, his face creased in
disgust. "Fuck, you little animal, you stink."
He pulled Sam out, and threw him across a concrete box of a room. He knocked
Sam back down when he tried to stand, and then, began methodically beating him.
He beat Sam until he threw up all the food and the water he'd drunk. Beat Sam
until he passed out, and then left him on the floor.
When Sam woke, his clothes were gone and he was draped in a too big t-shirt
that hung off him like an ugly sack. He was terrified by that, so scared that
someone had taken hisclothes and he hadn't even known, that at first he didn't
notice the wooden box was gone. The box was gone but he was still in the tiny
concrete room. The floor was wet, water sluggishly trickling down a drain set
in the middle of the floor. It was clean, and so was he. And he was hungry, so
hungry.
Food came again, a different man brought it. He watched while Sam stuffed
himself with it, and then beat him until Sam threw up again. Beat him harder
when he screamed. He was awake this time when the man hosed the room, and him,
down with icy water.
It went on and on. Sam hurt all over, all the time. He was hungry all the time,
so hungry he couldn't think. He'd almost forgotten he was waiting for Dean to
save him. He'd lost track of everything except the gnawing, clawing pain in his
middle.
Once, after he'd thrown up and before the man came with the hose, he'd tried to
eat whatever was most solid in the puke on the floor. He tried, he really
tried, but he couldn't keep it down.
Sam spent what felt like days and days this way—eat, get beaten, lose it, until
he stopped eating at all and no amount of beating would get him to. One
morning, or night, whenever it was, he opened his eyes, and try as hard as he
might, he couldn't move. Bits of him jerked and twitched and trembled all over,
but he couldn't move. The door opened and he smelled food. He blinked; it was
all he could do.
 
The man crouched down and held a cup out. Hissed when Sam couldn't reach out.
He lifted Sam's head and held the cup to his lips. It was that man, that Uncle
Luke. "Drink, but go slow. You throw this up and you don't get more." The cup
held some kind of coke, sweet and bubbly, it made his jaws lock, so he sucked
the liquid through his teeth. There was another taste, a weird taste.
Like…pennies. Coke and pennies. He didn't like it. It coated the inside of his
mouth, his tongue. His stomach wanted to push it back out, but Sam forced it
down. There was a look in the man's eyes that told him if he vomited, the
beating wouldn't stop with Sam just passing out
When the cup was empty, Uncle Luke eased Sam's head back to the ground. Sam
waited for the boot, the fist, but it didn’t come. He opened his eyes and found
himself looking into Uncle Luke's face, only inches away. He smiled at Sam,
brushing wiry, brown-blonde, hair back from a broad forehead and out of eyes so
blue they looked didn't look real. His cocoa colored skin made his teeth look
even whiter. "Remember this, little ass-ape. Everything you need comes from me.
Me, and nobody else."
Uncle Luke smacked his cheek lightly and walked out, leaving Sam to lay
blinking on the gritty concrete floor.
He only sat up when his stomach began to twist and roil, but he held the coke
down. After a few minutes, he felt warm all over, too warm. Sweat matted his
hair to his face; the grimy t-shirt he wore went wet with it. Sam shook and
moaned and bit down on his lip to keep quiet, bit until the tender skin popped
and blood ran over his chin. He'd been beaten too many times for speaking above
a whisper, too many times—he wasn't about to lose control now. Eventually, Sam
fell into a restless sleep. When he woke again, he felt better than he'd had in
a long, long time. He felt well enough to cry.
Uncle came to ask him how he felt, and Sam shook his head, his eyes locked on
Uncle's chin. "You don’t feel different? No strange dreams, nothing?" He stared
at Sam and Sam felt…how Uncle was a stack of jagged thoughts, stabbing Sam in
his head. There was slick, gluey blackness threaded all through the jagged
edges in Uncle Luke's head. He knew what Uncle wanted, but Sam wasn't going to
give him anything he didn't have to. "Fuck. A null, hunh? Well, guess your
strengths lay elsewhere, 'cause Yellow Eyes sure is excited about you, kid." He
shook his head and walked away, leaving Sam grateful to be alone in his head.
Every time after that, when Uncle asked, he shook his head, looked puzzled, and
smiled inside. After a while, Uncle Luke stopped asking.
Things changed after that, not really for the better but not worse. He woke up
one day in a bigger room, this one with a toilet and a blanket folded over a
few times. Twice a day, Uncle Luke brought him food. He got clothes, real
clothes, a clean pair of shorts and a t-shirt, every other day. Every few days,
he had a shower in a little closet made of plastic. He didn't know how long
he'd been there, how many days it'd been since the fire. No one came for him
and after a while, he began to think that maybe Uncle Luke had been telling the
truth. Maybe Dean and his dad really had died. Sam didn't want to think like
that, he prayed every day that they'd bust in the door and kill that Uncle Luke
bastard, but….
He'd lost all track of time. He didn't know how many days he'd been trapped
for, or maybe it was weeks, maybe even months. Whenever he got food Uncle Luke
told him he was lucky to have someone to feed him and clothe him, since his dad
was dead and no one was ever going to come for him. He said that every time.
Every day, Sam tried not to hear that, just let his hair hide his face and
closed his eyes as he ate the crap and drink the weird stuff Uncle Luke gave
him. And every time, Uncle Luke just grabbed a handful of hair, yanked his head
back and screamed in his face, "Pay attention!"
That happened until the day Uncle Luke brought clippers and all of Sam's hair
ended up on the cell floor. He ran his hands over his prickly scalp, wanting to
cry but not daring to. Not that he missed his hair, or wanted to keep it that
badly. It just felt like he'd lost something more important than hair—it felt a
little like he'd lost his family again. But that was stupid and he put it out
of his mind. He hadn't lost his family. He didn't believe Uncle Luke. He
wouldn't ever believe him because Dean wasn't dead.
                                      =+=
On days that someone else brought the food, Sam made sure to wait until Uncle
Luke came and told him it was okay to feed himself. If he didn't, the food sat
untouched, no matter how loud Sam's stomach roared. When it was like that, Sam
told himself his ABCs endlessly; sometimes he did it well enough to leave that
place and go somewhere nicer. He wished the nice place was somewhere he could
go outside of his head.
Once his food sat in his cell for two days, and Sam shook and drooled and shook
harder, eyes never leaving the metal pan but he didn't touch it, he didn't even
scoot closer to it. He just forced himself back from it far as he could get and
stared. Soft whines leaked out of him no matter how hard he tried to keep them
inside.
When his cell door creaked open at last, Sam pulled in tighter, only lifting
his eyes to see Uncle Luke filling the doorway. He had something in his hand
and a satisfied smile on his face. "Well, haven't you just been the good little
boy? That's my very good boy, my Samyaza."
Sam shook harder. Thankful that Uncle Luke had been pleased in some way;
anxious because this was new, and experience had taught him new was hardly ever
good.
Uncle Luke sat a tray on the floor. He called Sam over and Sam crawled fast as
he could, his knees too shaky to let him stand. Uncle handed him a cup, with
the pennies coke in it, and some toast. When Sam ate the toast, Uncle pointed
to the metal pan of old food, already beginning to smell bad. "Here. Eat it,"
he said. Sam jerked, hesitated a second before swallowing hard and reaching out
to the mess. His fingers broke through the crust that had formed over the food.
He hooked a few fingers full of it and opened his mouth, the food on the edge
of his lips, his mouth already drooling for food no matter how bad it smelled…
Uncle Luke started laughing, bending at the knees, tears running down his face,
he laughed so hard. Sam hesitated, eyes on the man, wonder and fear freezing
him in place. "Nah, don’t eat that."
Relief hit Sam so hard that he almost missed Uncle Luke replacing the old food
with fresh. He'd been terrified to eat the bad food, afraid of vomiting. Sam
had no desire to lick the concrete floor clean again…his tongue burned in
phantom pain at the flash of memory. "Go on, Samyaza. You go on and eat the new
stuff," Uncle Luke said.
Sam tentatively brushed past Uncle and shoved handfuls of fresh food in his
mouth. The pennies coke was already making him feel better, sharper. Everything
around him got sharper and clearer and he felt like he was bigger and brighter
himself. Samyaza, Uncle Luke kept saying. Sam wondered what it meant
                                      =+=
Sam tripped on his mat and fell to his knees. "Ouch," he yelped and the sound
startled him, loud in the damp emptiness of the basement. The echoes were dying
out when Sam realized—he couldn't remember the last time he'd spoken aloud.
Uncle Luke didn't like the sound of Sam's voice, and Sam learned quickly to
keep quiet. He just hadn't realized that he'd stopped talking altogether unless
Uncle demanded words.
When Uncle Luke brought him food that evening, he risked asking, his voice so
low and rough and ugly he hardly recognized himself, "Where am I?"
Uncle Luke screwed his face up like he'd smelled something bad; he pushed his
palm against Sam's face. "And you were doing so good. No speaking unless I tell
you to." Uncle Luke's hand wrapped around Sam's face and it was such a warm
contrast to the constant chill, it was almost pain. He waited for Uncle Luke to
hurt him, but his hand just lay there, curled around him. Warm, not hard, a
perfect cup on his aching cheek and Sam's eyes drifted shut. He leaned into the
pressure as much as he dared. Uncle Luke chuckled and rubbed his hand over
Sam's head; the touch felt so good that Sam shivered. Uncle asked him, "Are you
cold? Hungry?" Sam opened his mouth and Uncle moved his hand to wrap around
Sam's throat. He didn't squeeze, only tightened the grip enough for Sam to tell
that it was possible for Uncle to squeeze much harder…he closed his mouth and
shook his head.
"See there, you're learning," Uncle Luke said. "And since you've shown me
you're not as stupid as you look, I got a little something for you."
Uncle Luke held out his hand—between his fingers hung a dog collar. Sam froze
inside. He darted his eyes from side to side trying to see where the dog was,
and Uncle laughed again. "It's yours, dummy—a brand new, shiny present for
Samyaza." Uncle buckled it on, just a hair too tight; Sam wasn't sure if it was
meant to be that way, but he was afraid to ask. Uncle Luke yanked on the round,
black tag hanging from the collar. "You can't read it, but It's written right
here. Samyaza. Not a little hairless, nameless ape anymore. Now you're the
Owner's new dog."
Samyaza… Uncle was making some kind of mistake—he wasn't Samyaza. That was
wrong. Sam knew he only had one name and that was Samuel. "My name is Samuel,
Samuel Winchester, don't—"
The pain that shot through him felt like barbed wire coated in lightning,
dragged through him mouth first and pulled out of his ass. All through him
little branches of pain weaved and twisted before breaking out through his
skin. He heard Uncle's happy little laugh.
Uncle Luke waved a thing like a tiny remote control at him. "Wanna tell me your
name again?"
"Samue—" This time the pain came pouring out of his eyes, pain and hot tears
that tasted like pennies—"Samyaza," he gagged, "Samyaza—"
"See? I knew you weren't terminally stupid. Now…shut. Up."
Sam nodded and waited for all the barbed wire to spool out of him. Uncle Luke
left him alone to sleep after that. The water was warm when they hosed him off.
It woke him but it didn't hurt.
                                      =+=
                                   May 1993
Uncle Luke told him that when he got bigger, he'd have classes.
Sam wondered what classes were. He had a faint memory of someone soft and warm
whispering we'll have our own class like it was meant only for Sam to hear. If
Sam concentrated really hard, he saw big green eyes and pink cheeks rounded by
a smile. Soft hands. He thought the person might be his, maybe his
brother…possibly, but it might be just be a dream, not a memory. He had so many
dreams, good and bad, it was hard to tell what was real and what wasn't…
Classes. Maybe classes meant the same as ABCs. If they were the same, he
wouldn't let Uncle Luke know he knew them already. He had the feeling it'd be
better not to let Uncle know what he could do or what was on his mind, or that
he had any thoughts at all. He rolled a little tighter on the soft rug Uncle
kept in his office for him and tried to sleep, but he'd had his pennies coke,
and as usual, it made him restless. Uncle Luke was yelling in the phone and
that made it harder to sleep, too. He sighed inside. A B C D E A N…now I know
my abcs abcdean, now I know my abcs. Abcdean, now I….
"We're trying to keep under the radar, does Yellow Eyes get that? We need a few
years for this bunch, or he's starting from zero with a new bunch of brats.
Dead school kids showing up in dumpsters ain't quite the same as dead bums.
People tend to get interested when it's kids." Uncle Luke slammed the phone
shut and tossed it on his desk. "Fuckin' idiots."
He looked down at Sam and Sam tried to make a smile face. He did it when he
wanted Uncle Luke to laugh because a laughing Uncle was a mostly not a hurting
one. Uncle did laugh, smoothing the jabbing edges of his thoughts a bit, and
Sam sighed inside with relief. Uncle's laughter died out, his eyes still on
Sam. Then he stood, pulled his pants down and Sam just stared. He looked up at
Uncle Luke, puzzled. Was he going to pee on the office floor?
"Come here, Samyaza," Uncle said, his eyes and face all strange but he was
smiling so Sam thought that must be good….
                                      =+=
It was not long after that afternoon that the first move came, at least the
first move Sam remembered. Sam whined and fretted—if that green-eyed boy wanted
to find him, he'd never find him now. Not that Sam had great hopes for such a
thing happening, it'd just become something he was used to thinking, like ABCs
and Once upon a time and Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep.
That move brought them to someplace that looked like a farm. There were big,
big fields, green and gold, the grass so tall he couldn't see over it. He liked
the way it waved like water in the wind. The sky was wide and a very bright
blue, like Uncle Luke's eyes, but the sky was nice to look at anyway. A wooden
fence surrounded the farm as far as Sam could see. Every day that they stayed
there, Sam had to run alongside that fence until Uncle thought he'd run enough,
then Sam could stop and rest, get food and water. Even so, he liked the farm;
he liked the good smelling air and the open after spending so much time in one
little damp, dark room. He liked the open even if sometimes he slept outside on
a chain. It was good for him—he stopped being afraid of the dark after a while,
stopped crying for something he couldn't quite understand. He learned to run
fast and for a long time without needing to stop. He felt stronger, bigger,
maybe even a bit braver.
They moved again, to a very small house near water. A lake so big he could
barely see the far shore.
The house was tiny and all of one floor—no basement. Most nights, he slept on
the kitchen floor. It was warm in the kitchen, and quiet, and that was good,
but sometimes he slept in Uncle Luke's bed. It was warm too and the bed was
soft, but he hated the smell, the way Uncle breathed.
Sam had learned early on that with the bad things there also came some good
things, if he looked for them. And although at first the lake was part of the
bad things, as time passed, Sam came to see the good. Good was the way sun-
warmed sand under his bare feet felt nice, and the water…he loved to watch it
move, loved the way it looked. It shimmered under the sky, reflecting clouds
above. It fascinated Sam, and scared him too. He shivered each time he stepped
into its cool touch, felt little stones roll and sand shift under his feet. The
collar came off at the lake—no shocks, and that was very good. Swimming was
good, in a way. He was careful—knew that the water could take him, deep and
down, if he wasn't. But once he was in the water he was in his own world, a
place that only belonged to him.
At this place, Sam swam every day. Rain or shine, he swam in the lake while
Uncle's man stood on the shore watching him, face twisted like he smelled
something bad. His thoughts rolled and bounced, shot through with Sam's name,
tinged grey with unfocused fear. The man hated him, but feared Uncle more.
Smart man. Sam swam hard so he couldn't feel his thoughts, swam until the
muscles in his arms and legs knotted up and he'd drown if Uncle's man wasn't
there to drag him out of the water. But…he learned to block other's thoughts,
he learned to hold his breath for a very long time, and his muscles became hard
like steel. At the end, when they moved again, water held no mystery for him.
                                      =+=
                                   June 1995
Time passed. Sam grew taller, and with growth came restless nights, filled with
throbbing pains that sometimes made him wake from sleep crying.
He wasted sleep time trying to find some comfortable place for his bones.
Dreams pulled him this way and that, unsettling him. He'd wake sometimes to a
voice he knew was the boy's whispering to him, but what it said, he could never
remember. Once, he had a dream that made him roll off his mattress, desperate
and needing to look…for something, or maybe for someone. He crawled around the
floor, searching. He hit the wall and the pain shook him fully awake. The tail
end of the dream left words in his head. "You eat Lucky Charms while I do my
ABCs." Sam shook his head. It didn't make sense, but he felt much better and
his legs didn't hurt so much. He even smiled a little as he curled up on his
mattress and sank back down into sleep.
During the time Sam was shooting up, they moved again, and this was the best
move, his favorite. This time Sam slept by himself in a big wooden barn,
nestled deep in sweet-smelling straw, dry and warm. He had a heavy blanket he
loved, even if it smelled of the horses that once had been there. He felt safe
there, he felt something like happy, even if his days were spent climbing up
and down the ropes that hung from the barn rafters. The barn was full of spots
to hide and to explore, places to lay down in that were filled with sun. There
were treasures to find, like a small blue egg he'd come across in the grass one
day. He'd found it, and now it was his, more his than the clothes he wore or
the blanket he slept with.
Nothing made the barn place bad, not cold showers, not Uncle Luke, because the
handfuls of minutes that belonged to him were totally his. He'd hide and think
about the boy, imagine playing with him, imagine the boy looking out for him….
Eventually, as days grew longer and his life rolled on unchanged, he thought
less and less about the boy, until finally he passed out of Sam's life like a
memory of smoke.
                                      =+=
Sam was hiding in the barn. The night before, Uncle came and told him that
they'd be leaving soon and none of Sam's trash was to come with. "None of that
garbage, you hear? We don't have room for useless shit, Samyaza."
He sifted slowly through the hay in the corner of the last stall. This was his
last chance to spend time with the few things he'd gathered. It was stupid.
He'd always known it would never last, but this place, this barn, he'd loved.
He rolled the little blue egg in his palm, enjoying the color and the feel of
it against his skin. He sighed and laid it on the straw. There was a rock he'd
found, with a hole through one end of it, there was a feather, the color of
early night sky and ashes. He drew the feather across his lip and smiled a
little at the feel—the smile dropped away and he climbed to his feet. He
gathered up the pieces to throw in the trash fire. Stupid, to collect those
things, but he'd just…he'd needed to. It was sad to lose them but it would have
been sadder never to have had them at all….
                                      =+=
The smoke from the trash fire was drifting high overhead when the back door
opened and he heard Uncle calling him.
"Samyaza—get in here and get ready, we have a party tonight. You know how much
you love parties," Uncle laughed. Sam's stomach dropped right out. He shivered.
Bad day, now a bad night coming. He glanced at the fire again and ran to the
house.
                                      =+=
Sam crouched against the side of a big upholstered chair and tried to make
himself smaller. It hadn't worked yet that night—his mouth was sore, and his
head ached terribly but so far, he hadn't been called on to do anything else.
His stomach rolled slowly, thickly…he gulped and gulped and hoped he wasn't
going to be sick. There was a yank on his collar and his head whipped up.
"There's someone who wants to talk to you, Samyaza."
A piece of the shadows pulled away, grew bigger until a tall man stood over
him, yellow fire screaming out of the place his eyes should be. Sam blinked
frantically, and the bloody mask became just a face with ordinary eyes, eyes
that latched onto Sam's again. "This one…this one looks perfect. Our little
Sammy. If you make it through these tests—and I know you will because you are
truly my favorite—you'll have a huge load of responsibility to shoulder. And
what big, wide shoulders they'll be one day."
The man asked Uncle, "Are you taking care of my favorite little general? Are
you making sure he grows the right way, my way?" Uncle Luke stammered and
babbled and the man held up his hand, shaking his head. "Spare me. I don’t give
a fuck what you do with him, just don’t break him," the man said. "Come here,
Sam." And Sam shuffled forward, head down, on his knees like Uncle taught him.
Sam reached up and put his hands on the man's thighs like he was taught but the
man knocked him away with a harsh laugh.
"No, thanks—it's not you, it's me. My tastes run quite a bit different than
underage boy meat." He knelt over Sam, pulled him up until his lips were right
at Sam's ear. "Here's a secret for ya, just you and me. If it all works out
like we've planned, one day, everyone will kneel to you." He grinned at Sam,
curled long fingers over Sam's scalp and scratched, scratched…"Even your
'uncle', little general, if you want it. I promise you," he said. Sam closed
his eyes and wished the man far, far away from him.
After the man left, Uncle said, "That was the Owner. He likes you. That's good.
Some, he doesn't like much and they never last long after, them or their
trainers." Uncle looked down at Sam. "Maybe lucky isn't the word but…" He
shrugged. "Works for me," he said and sent Sam to his place.
They moved many, many times. Turns and turns of seasons, and everywhere they
moved, Sam learned something else, gained something else. He grew taller, and
stronger, and Uncle didn't call him as often to get in his bed or kneel by his
feet. Sam had the feeling it was because he wasn't as little or as weak as he
was once but he never thought very hard about it because he didn't care why—he
was just glad not to be there. Whatever little bit of good Sam managed to
squeeze out of what Uncle Luke did had never been enough to make Sam stop
hating him. He wanted to burn Uncle up like his family had burned….
                                      =+=
                                 December 2001
The back of the truck opened, the sound of metal scraping against metal setting
Sam on edge instantly.
A big, scowling man hopped in the back and unlocked the cage Sam was twisted up
in. "C'mon, ya poor fuck, we're here. Shake it." He poked Sam, hard, but his
voice was almost kind and the grip he had on Sam's hand to help him to his feet
was firm but not painful. He glanced at the man and away. He was just one of
the many, unimportant, faceless men that drifted in and out of his life like
smoke.
"Wait," the man said and handed Sam a coat and shoes. Sam crouched and quickly
slid the shoes on, buttoned up the coat. The sudden warmth hurt almost as much
as the cold. When they jumped down out of the truck, Sam stepped into a slushy,
grey pile of snow. He lifted his head and sniffed around. The inside of his
nose pricked with the bright scent of snow, mostly overpowered by the smell of
gas, tar, garbage…cars splashed through watery snow, headlights bouncing light
into the alleyway. It'd been a long time since they were anywhere lots of
people lived. He shivered, his shoulders itched. He felt the weight of all
those lives hiding in the buildings around them. He blinked slowly, as images
rolled through him. People doing people things, laughing, hurting, bored,
touching each other in ways that made his stomach clench and his prick
twitch…so many feelings, more than he was used to all at once. He shook his
head to clear the wandering thoughts, lifted his face to search out the moon
above the rooftops. It was so bright he could see its light even in the narrow
little alleyway the truck was parked in. It was snowing; little flakes pelted
his face and stuck to his lashes.
Uncle moved them into that place, the house lined in a row with other houses,
and that night was the only time he saw the street the house was on. All day
long he heard the sound of people living. He wondered if they belonged to Uncle
Luke. He wondered if they wanted themselves dead. The days living at this house
he spent walking back and forth in the dark room under the stairs. He lay on
his mattress, tangled up in his blanket. He poked about in the piles of
moldering junk shoved in the corners of the room. He watched furtive little
mice dash across the room, avoiding his spot, so he avoided theirs. Their
fearful excursions made his belly shake in silent laughter. He spent time
staring at a little window high in the wall. He was fascinated by how the
brightness and the color of light changed the window. Sometimes he could see
the pale white light of the moon in it. He loved the window.
He was deep into a waking dream, face turned up to the window but gone far
away—until Uncle Luke came to fetch Samyaza upstairs.
"This is it, Samyaza. We're in the home stretch—the payoff for me and a kingdom
for you, if you're lucky. And of course, you don’t know what I mean, do you?"
Uncle asked and Samyaza stared at the floor, giving his head a careful shake in
case it wasn't a real question. "Don't worry 'bout it, you don’t have to know.
It's not even important yet, not for you." Uncle walked while Sam shuffled
after on his knees, making sure that he was facing Uncle wherever he happened
to stop. They were in the room that smelled of beans and oatmeal, the kitchen.
Uncle turned and gave Sam a long look. He pushed the crinkly mess of blonde-
brown hair out of his eyes, and huffed. "This has been a real…this's been some
crazy shit, that's for sure. We put a lot of years into you mutts, I blew a lot
of years." Sam lowered his head and hoped that Uncle Luke wasn't going to go
from quiet to trying to beat whatever it was upsetting him out on Sam's skin.
The back door opened and a freezing wind brought a strange man inside. Sam
froze, worried. Visitors meant bad news and there was nothing about this man
that made him feel otherwise. The man ignored Samyaza and focused on Uncle. He
shrugged off a snow-damp coat and muttered, "Ready when you are, man."
Uncle snapped his fingers and Sam shuffled over fast as he could, his knees
hooking against the rug. For a second, his heart clenched in bright pain—he
kept moving, expecting punishment any second for wrinkling the rug. Uncle
cursed. "Hurry the fuck up," he snapped and smacked the back of the chair. Sam
gulped and crawled up on it, tried to curl small, but Uncle snapped again. "Sit
up, damn it, back straight and sit still."
Sam whipped upright as Uncle walked around the chair, eyes locked on Sam.
"Thirteen years." He sighed. "Well, we all knew what we were getting into. Gave
up half our fuckin' lives for this. Thirteen years, thirteen mutts. And now
it's almost over."
"Yeah, whatever," The stranger muttered. He laid out tools on the table,
ignoring Sam like he was part of the chair. Sam broke into a clammy sweat. He
eyed the tools warily; none of them were familiar and he wasn't sure if that
was a good thing or not…new hardly ever meant good. Uncle gave the man a piece
of paper. "Name, Owner's mark, same as the rest. But this one gets the crown
symbol on his neck."
The stranger cocked an eyebrow and finally looked, really looked, at Sam. He
raked eyes over him, a little frown on his lips and a cold interest in his
eyes. "He looks normal. Why's he get a crown?"
"Don’t worry about it; just do what I say."
There came a low buzzing noise and the man approached him, some odd thing in
his hand. He stood over Sam and touched the thing to his face, and it made a
strange feeling that grew and grew until Sam had to grind his teeth together to
keep from crying out. It went on and on, the man stopping from time to time to
wipe his cheek—blood came away on the white pad. Sam didn't make a sound,
didn't move. He thought about the pain until it got distant and pale…turned to
a steady throb that sent him deeper into his place inside….
"You're done," the stranger said and rubbed something on his cheek, and on his
neck. He tilted Sam's head from side to side, the little frown slowly turning
into a sketch of a smile. "All right then," he said and put tape over the
throbbing places, and that was the extent of his interest in Sam. The man
packed away his tools and when he was gone, Uncle turned to Sam. His smile was
wider, a red blush tinting his cheeks darker. Sam was shaky when Uncle yanked
him to his feet.
"You're ready now. We put enough time in getting you all ready, Little
General." Uncle Luke sneered the words but they flowed over Samyaza like
water—they had no meaning, so he ignored them and concentrated on the sound of
them—smooth, satisfied, so Sam smiled. Uncle Luke rubbed his hand all over the
bristly crown of Sam's head and Sam leaned into the touch. He rubbed his cheek
against Uncle Luke, and Uncle laughed. "You're so trained, aren't you? Good
little freak." He let go of Sam and Sam let the shock of his knees hitting the
tile knock him back under the waves of the quiet place. Uncle said, "How 'bout
one for old time's sake?" and he unzipped, pulled his pants down. Sam smiled
wider, and then opened his mouth.
Sam imagined a huge, black sky filled with thick, grey clouds, with streaks of
lightning flashing from cloud to cloud. He imagined standing on a bone white
shore in front of a big, black lake, so big there was no opposite shore in
sight, so wide he couldn't see any edges, just water and Uncle Luke, swimming
and swimming in the middle of the lake and no one to drag him back out when he
started to drown….
Sam's jaw was aching to match the ache in his cheek by the time Uncle Luke
gripped the back of his head, and there was no breathing until Uncle came. He
smeared the come and spit around Sam's chin and lips, careful not to touch the
aching cheek. "Tomorrow, you're gonna find a whole new world. You'll meet other
little princes. The Owner says it's time to get some return on his investment.
I think he's right about you..." Uncle Luke said, his voice going weirdly soft.
Sam winced. He didn't trust any moment Uncle's voice went that soft, quiet
tone.
                                      =+=
It was just beginning to lighten in his basement place—the sound of rain
hitting the window had him up earlier than usual, and now he was sitting on his
mattress, eating his breakfast. The room was washed a weak grey from whatever
light managed to make it through the dirty window. Sam kind of liked it, the
way it made everything seem like a dream. He was going to eat his food and
pretend it was a good dream. He was just licking the last of the oatmeal off
his fingers when Uncle came stomping down the stairs. Sam threw the pan aside
and dropped to his knees. He waited for whatever thing Uncle Luke wanted him
for but Uncle just snapped his fingers. Sam raised his head and was face to
face with a very big, shaggy dog.
"Say hi to the new pup," Uncle Luke said and Sam and the dog both flinched. The
dog peered at Sam, yellow eyes in a black mask. His wet nose twitched, sniffing
the air carefully as Sam whispered a shaky hello. It craned its neck to sniff
harder and Uncle took his hand off the collar buckled around the dog's neck, a
collar just like Sam's, a little black tag on it the same as Sam's.
The dog leaped at him, mouth closed but growling like thunder and Sam broke
Kneel, scrambled back against the wall. If he could just get to the crates in
the corner, maybe the dog couldn't touch him. He'd much rather take a beating
for disobeying than be ripped to pieces by the dog.
"Sit," Uncle barked and both the dog and Sam froze. "Let him sniff you," Uncle
said and Sam shivered as the dog sniffed him from neck to toe. Sam squeezed his
eyes tight when he felt its cold, wet nose dig into his armpit—when teeth
grazed his neck he waited for them to dig in, but they only tugged briefly at
his collar and moved away. Sam eased his eyes open a bit just as the dog turned
its head away. The light caught its eyes in an odd way—they looked less yellow
and dog-like, almost…Uncle snapped his fingers and the dog came back to his
side but kept its eyes on Sam. Sam felt something odd, something heavy in its
gaze, but the look he'd caught a few seconds ago was gone. The tip of the dog's
tail swept the floor, back and forth.
"You'll be careful of him," Uncle said as he walked the dog away. Sam wasn't
sure who he was talking to.
It was puzzling, though he should be used to not understanding what Uncle did
or why. Still, scary as the dog had been, he hadn't really felt anything bad
from it; in fact, the dog felt smooth and warm in his head. Sam was curious,
enough to want to see the dog again. Though better at the end of a nice, thick
chain, he thought and chuckled quietly to himself.
 
Later that afternoon, Uncle Luke came back to the basement, handed him a big
cup of water and told him to drink up, drink it all. He must have been very
tired, because after a minute or so his legs felt like wet sand, and he lay
down on his mattress. He sighed, and fidgeted. He turned one way, and then
another. It felt like his skin was creeping on his bones, little hitches and
twitches that kept startling him awake, and it was only when he jumped that he
even realized he'd been sleeping. He felt his arms yanked up but he wasn't sure
if he was dreaming that, he felt the ground under him sway and then, nothing
but sound, sound, sleep.
2
                                      =+=
Cold prickled over Sam's skin, poking its way into a dream about food, lots and
lots of food, all soft, pretty colors and odd shapes. Sam heard himself
laughing, could feel his lips move in his sleep and that made the dream fade….
Sleep time was becoming waking up time. Sam frowned and shifted to pull more
blanket around himself, tried willing himself back into sleep. He curled his
shoulders in, adjusting for his feet coming off the end of the mattress, but
there was no end of the mattress. His toes didn’t scrape against concrete and
his blanket felt odd, heavier—he froze. Something was wrong. His eyes flew open
and he rolled upright, scooting away from the light as he did. The ceiling was
high, so high that even standing on a stack of crates he wouldn't be able to
touch it. The walls were so far apart it felt like being outside. Wires hung
everywhere from the ceilings, draping over pipes like vines, crisscrossing over
the long, acid bright tubes of lights that hung from the ceiling too. It stank,
like trucks and cold and piss. He shuddered, his skin pebbling with the cold
air.
This was bad, very bad…he'd gone to sleep in the basement and woke in some
terrible other place. Maybe this was a dream—if it was, he wanted to wake up
now. But when he scrambled backwards off the mattress, the bars behind him were
very cold, very solid. He was in a cage in a row of cages, each one filled.
Boys and girls, some looking as blank and shocked as Sam felt, others
crying...Sam wanted to cry too, for the first time in a long time. A boy in the
next cage shook his head, pretending to wipe his eyes, and shook his head
again. no crying Sam stared at him at him until the boy turned away, the chain
around his neck shifting across the tiled floor. Sam was glad he wasn't
chained, too.
                                      =+=
Not long after Sam was fully awake, Uncle Luke and some strange men came into
the huge room, talking loudly to each other, their excitement boiling off them
and sweeping over Sam in sick waves. He wavered between kneeling and trying to
pretend he was still asleep, but one of the men was walking down the length of
cages, banging on the bars with a long metal pole, shouting, "Wake up, mutts,
wake up!"
The other kids straggled to their feet, some alert, some sleepy. One of the men
unreeled a chain as the cages were unlocked, and Uncle called one after the
other of the boys and girls to him—strange names, strange kids. They were
locked by their collars to the chain. When Uncle called out, "Samyaza," Sam
trotted up to the spot Uncle pointed at. Sam wondered briefly how far he'd get
before he was taken down while he lifted his neck to make it easier for one of
the men to lock him to the chain. His hands were cold; his dark eyes glittered
like oil. Sam tilted his head back as far as he could and closed his eyes. He
felt…nothing. Blank, still water. Empty sky, dry grass…he opened his eyes again
and stared at the man in front of him. His glittering eyes were empty as his
mind. Uncle grinned and nudged Sam. "Tell Master Zee thank you, you'll see a
lot of him in the coming future."
Sam felt something from the master then, the skinniest tendril of annoyance,
curling towards Uncle Luke. The man looked back at Sam and said, "I'm going to
teach you to fight, so that what you see next won't happen to you." He turned
to the next boy, his attention gone from Sam like he didn't exist.
Master Zee. Blankness…he'd never experienced thoughts like Master Zee's before,
not sharp, not crumbly or sticky or…not anything. He liked it, he was drawn to
it.
They were all chained, and then made to march across the floor. After the first
few kids who stumbled and pulled them off their feet were beaten for it, they
quickly learned to pace themselves and keep each other upright. The place they
were in was huge, big as outdoors. They moved down a big slope and around a
bend and out through a big set of doors into another huge room, brighter than
outdoors. Uncle pulled on the chain and brought them to a stop next to a chain-
link fence set up in a square. There were owners sprawled in chairs sat around
the fence. There were other kids on chains, across the chain-link square. He
could see them kneeling in the shadows. The air smelled like shit, like
blood….A scream made the kids on Uncle's chain jump in fear, everyone
staggered, the sudden movement making them unsteady. The boy who'd first warned
him not to cry tugged on his arm. Fight, he mouthed. Sam tilted his head and
the boy understood Sam meant he was confused. The boy pointed at what was
happening inside the chain-link. Sam turned his head just in time to see a red-
eyed black dog, jaws stuffed with long, sharp teeth, rip a chunk right out of a
girl…the owners leaped up at her screams, some cheering, some booing and Sam
saw with shock that there were humans sitting with the owners just like they
belonged. They clapped right along when the girl was dragged out of the square,
blood leaving a wide trail behind her. The black dog stood in the center,
shaking blood off its jaws and pawing at the stained concrete.
Uncle walked down the chain until he came to the thin little boy standing with
Sam. He unlocked him and shoved him towards the fence. "Game-time, 'walker."
Sam jerked forward, hands out, when the boy fell to the ground and seized
violently—before Sam took more than a step, he'd scrambled up on his hands and
knees, shaking. He made a noise--not pained, more of a sigh, like something
heavy slid off him.
Sam blinked and was looking at a dog instead of a boy. The dog turned his head
towards Sam. Yellow eyes Sam recognized gleamed out of a black mask; the dog
shook his shaggy body and raced into the ring. "Get 'im, Iz," Uncle Luke
shouted, and laughed. Sam could barely hear him over the excited screams of
owners and the owners' humans.
Sam watched the boy—dog—tear the black dog to bits. That afternoon, one more
kid came off Uncle's chain, and died behind the fence to cheers and catcalls.
The one who called himself Master Zee put the boy who was also a dog back on
the chain again. Sam felt something from him this time—a chilly kind of
satisfaction. "Good work in the ring, Israfil. Well done," he told the silent
boy. Israfil stood calmly, slowly blinking big, pale brown eyes and absolutely
coated from head to toe with blood—he reeked with the sulfur/honey stink of it.
He blinked, and gave Sam a small, shy smile. His teeth looked very white in the
strip of blackening blood around his mouth.
All over the room, jagged, jangling, crazy thoughts beat at Sam, fire and blood
and sick excitement drowning him until he was desperate to beat his own brains
out and then…Uncle came down the chain again and gave everyone a can of coke.
Sam gulped it down, for the first time glad for the taste of pennies and what
it meant. He calmed himself enough that he was able to smile back at the bloody
little boy without wanting to throw up.
So now, Sam knew. Everything he'd learned without knowing he was learning it
fell into place, everything finally made sense. His purpose was clear—fight or
die. The Owner made them for this, and it was for the Owner's pleasure that the
caged kids fought. Sam didn't care why—none of them cared. They only cared
about survival. Sam was determined to walk out of the ring at the end of the
day.
                                      =+=
Change of place, change of life, change, always change. Sam had new lessons
now, they were defined, specific. Sam learned how to fight with a knife, where
to cut to let a person's insides out, where to cut to cripple or to kill. How
to kill with a rope, a stick, his bare hands. How to do it fast or slow. He
wanted to live so he killed. Uncle said he adapted, that's what made him
special. Killing was something he became good at…maybe that explained the why
of his life.
                                      =+=
His first time in the training ring, first fight, he was so scared he couldn't
breathe, couldn't think. Uncle Luke said the Owner wanted the kids broken-in
the fast way, especially wanted to see if Sam had what it took. "If you come
back out, you get a reward," Uncle whispered in his ear, right before he kicked
Sam into the roped-off square with a grin.
Lights ringed the walls, shone on the floor, and cast the rest of the big shed
they were using as a training ground into shadow. He could feel watchers there,
smell them; the bright copper-iron, honey-sulfur scent of them made his mouth
water, his belly twist…
It was nothing like he'd imagined it'd be like, it was like no nightmare he'd
ever had.
The match went on, on and on; there was more blood than he'd ever seen before,
it was everywhere. Some weird, wild, slithery thing inside made him laugh,
because he'd thought that the blood he'd spilled before, when it was just his
own, was terrifying. Now he knew better. In the shadows around the pit, the
watchers laughed too. "Good boy, Samyaza," he heard.
They fought back and forth across the square. The other boy was similar in
build and skill to himself, and it was taking a long time to win. Fighting had
long since become stumbling, become falling. The two of them were exhausted,
slipping around in each other's blood; they could barely lift their hands, move
their feet. The boy tripped and fell to one knee, blinded by the blood in his
eyes, and Sam ripped the last bit of his strength from somewhere deep inside
himself. In his next breath, he closed his teeth over the shuddering pulse in
the boy's throat—pulled until flesh tore and blood sprayed and the boy was so
worn, so exhausted, he could barely scream. He shuddered all over and was
still. Sam gagged violently; he vomited on the corpse and passed out. But the
Owner was pleased, and Uncle Luke carried him out of the ring in his arms, even
though Sam was filthy.
That evening the man with the bag came, and Uncle held Sam down as the man took
a wire and burned a new mark on the back of Sam's shoulder, inked a crown on
his chest. Uncle smiled at Sam. "Look at you. Look what you did. A crown for a
general, Samyaza. Owner's pleased; you made his enemies look stupid, and proved
his choice right. And with this," Uncle lightly scraped a fingernail over the
burning spot on his arm and Sam jerked forward, a high-pitched whine breaking
past his ability to hold it back. The pain roared through him. "No one's gonna
be wearing you, lucky little bitch."
Lucky? Sam curled over and threw up between his feet. The stink of burning
meat, the volcanic pain in his shoulder, the memory of how that boy's skin felt
between his teeth, the sudden gush of blood against the back of his throat, it
was horrible and beat against Sam's brain again and again until Sam felt like
he was lost inside his own head.
"It'll get better," Uncle said. "Trust me, after a while, you'll crave this."
                                      =+=
Uncle Luke's instruction for the kids in the cages was to get to know each
other. Find out what made the other tick, because that way they'd know how to
kill each other. Uncle Luke thought it was funny, but Sam didn't laugh and
neither did the rest of the kids. Still, it was good advice, so Sam watched,
learned as much as possible. Like Zaqiel, big, strong, beautiful—stronger than
all of them combined, strong enough to hold a werewolf's jaws shut, to snap its
neck. He had a big heart, but he ran too hot; it was easy to get him too angry
to think.
There was Asael, nervous, always sticking to the shadows. Who snuck into brains
and twisted them around his fingers like grass stems. Even so, he had a light
in his eyes that Sam liked. There was Ananiel, quiet, kind against all odds,
always one step ahead of them in time, and Tamiel, pretty as the morning sky,
whose touch struck like lightning. And Israfil the little skinwalker, soft and
sweet like honey. There were more of them, all the twisted children, all alone
in their cages…all meat on the Owner's table.
Master Zee worked every one of them hard and fast. Sam appreciated Master. All
he wanted was to train them—beyond that, he didn't give a shit about them. That
was reflected in the smooth, cold desert inside Master Zee's head. Sam almost
loved him for that quiet. Every touch of his mind was like gliding though
snow…not clean, but cool. Quiet. It relaxed Sam to know that all Master wanted
from them was their best—that or death. Easy.
"Go," Master shouted and Samyaza broke Kneel, leaped to his feet and cautiously
rounded an already moving Zaqiel, his eyes locked on him as he moved backwards
step by step, waiting. Zack was never patient and—just like Sam expected—he
rushed Sam, his head down and arms churning. He depended on his weight and
strength to overpower his opponent. Sam waited until the last possible second,
jumped aside and came back down at slightly to the left of Zack. He brought
both fists down between the boy's shoulder blades but held, and Zaqiel froze
too. Sam ran through moves in his head, fast as he could. Should he move away
now or drop Zack? Beat him unconscious or kill him? What did Master Zee want of
him?
Master Zee barked, "Stop!" and all the kids came to a halt. He made them come
close and pointed at Samyaza's hands, still fisted and resting in between
Zaqiel's shoulders. The skin was hot under his fists and Sam knew Zack would be
hurting later. Master Zee spoke on, "In the ring, you'll want to do that on the
back of your opponent's neck. It will break like a candy stick. It's a good
move in the ring, good for anything but the bloodsuckers. You—" he pointed at
Zack. "You lost your temper, again. It worked against you. It was energy
wasted." The crew shuffled, trying to move away from Zaqiel without actually
moving. "Maybe next time you fight a wolf, we'll do without the silver wash."
Sam flinched. Zaqiel fought weres essentially bare-handed. Without treatments,
he'd turn…he danced on the edge as it was. They knew what happened to the
werewolves, the vampires, the monsters. Sam knew the way Uncle treated him was
worlds and worlds better than he treated the not-human monsters. Zack's big
brown eyes turned up to Master Zee, long lashes beginning to clump with
moisture. A tear rolled down his cheek and dripped off his chin. His voice
warbled briefly but steadied as he spoke. "Yes, sir," he said, "sorry, sir. Do
better."
"Get up. Go wait in the punishment cell." Master Zee then turned to Sam.
"Samyaza. You're slow. Sloppy. If Zaqiel wasn't incompetent, you'd be dead. You
hit him and then stood there, waiting to get killed. You move, strike, and then
move away. Idiot. If you were in a ring, you'd be dead. If you were street
fighting, you'd be dead. You're worthless."
Sam dropped his head. He wished now he had killed Zack. Then maybe Master Zee
would let up on him. He'd been riding Sam nonstop. Sam felt a slight tremor
work its way up his arms and flow out through his fingers. He felt the ghost of
cramps through his midsection that he got when a few days went by without
reward. His body knew there was no reward coming this day. Master Zee stared
hard at him, and then snorted in disgust—Sam even felt it, a brief, hot lick of
revulsion. "Get out of my ring."
Sam ran lightly for the door, stopped when Zee called. "Go to your spot, now."
Sam nodded and felt tears prick at the back of his eyes. He'd failed miserably.
And he'd been trying so hard. Next time, he would kill Zaqiel…Sam sighed,
disgusted with himself. No he wouldn't…he couldn't. There were some of the crew
who'd become…Sam tried to think of a word, something to describe what they
were…unkillable. Unkillable, yes, it suited his feeling about them. Sam's
stomach twisted thinking of Iz dead, or Tami. He wouldn't like any of them
dead. Besides, right now, Zack was probably wishing he had been killed—even
shaking through sweats and cramps and trying not to shit the cage, even with
his teeth chattering so loud it was like his ears were inside his mouth, Sam
could hear Zaqiel screaming.
                                      =+=
                                   May 2002
Sam made his way quietly between the cages, letting the others sleep.
Mumbling, rising and falling, came from the end of the dark hallway where he
was headed. He flattened himself against the wall and slipped into the darkness
like a shadow. At the end of that hall, there was another cage, one he was
curious about. His eyes took a moment to adjust to the increased darkness; this
far back the light tubes were dimmer—some were dead. He smelled a deep musk,
rank with sweat and dirt but underneath, a thick sort of animal smell he liked.
He crept closer. There was a tangle of rags and a dark mound of something
pressed against the bars of the cage. Sam called out softly, "Hello?"
The mound in the cage unfolded into a man-shape—it reared its head. "What the
fuck—get out of here, you little shit. Get the fuck away."
A long, thin and very dirty arm shot out through the bars of the cage, clawed
fingers grabbing for Sam. Sam slithered easily out of reach. "Who are you?" he
asked.
"Me? I'm no one, nosy little fuck," it laughed, high and bitter and the rank
smell got stronger. Sam took the chance and crept close again and now he could
make out a skeletal man, shaved head, whole body painted with thick streaks of
filth. He squatted in the cage, his bloodshot eyes gleaming at Sam. Worn
clothing hung like washing from his too thin frame and he coughed hard, flecks
of blood spattering the yellowish skin around his mouth. Dried blood crinkled
and flaked in the corners when he snarled. Sam considered the man. There were
burns up and down his arms, on his cheeks—the bars must be inlaid with silver,
Sam thought.
The bony wreck shivered and hacked again, blood bubbling from his nose. He
swiped at it carelessly, glanced at the smear, wiped it on his pants leg. At
one time he must have been imposing, judging from his wide shoulders and big
hands, taller than Sam. Sickness had leached all the caramel out of his skin,
leaving him a pale yellow shadow of himself, listless and bitter.
"Last of the Atision pack," he crowed suddenly, startling Sam. "Me, me, last,
last, all by myself." He turned a red eye on Sam and hissed, "You know what
it's like to outlast your whole pack? 'Course you don't, fucking alone anyways,
always alone lone. Freaksssss. Freak spawn killing each other over kibble.
Ambulatory chum." The man coughed again, moist and thick, his chest rattled
with the effort of it. Sam heard that noise and knew it meant the man was dying
slowly. He was prey now, an easy kill, but Sam felt some odd, useless little
flicker of sympathy for the werewolf. He sank down to sit on the floor. Gazed
up at the were, riding the dizzying ebb and flow of his sanity.
The were hacked wetly and spit at the floor between his long bony feet. Sam's
eyes darted to the blob of bright red there. "Blood-doped chimera. Lost. You
don’t even know, do you? Alone…" The werewolf's eyes focused, when he spoke
again, his voice warbled but he was there. "Can't live without a pack, you
know? Can't live a real life without it. Can't wait to die. Fuckin' wolf in me
won’t let loose, though, just can't let go," he laughed, high and shaky. "The
wolves just don’t grasp the idea of suicide."
Tears ran down the man's face and Sam came closer, curious. He shivered at the
slippery black roiling through the crazy, a feeling like…like one of the other
kids gave out before he snapped his own neck on a climbing rope. Ah…it was a
bad, dark feeling. "So, tell me what pack means," Sam asked without really
thinking. "Explain."
The werewolf stared at Sam for a long minute, so long that Sam got up again to
leave, but the man said, "Okay. You want to know? Okay, little freak, I'll tell
you but you won't understand. You can't. Pack is…pack is pack," he began. "We
are one, and we are many…were many…."
By the end of the next full moon, the were was dead in the ring. Sam began to
think about the things the werewolf had told him. Sam started to see something
of what the wolf had meant when he'd explained pack, especially as Sam dragged
the bodies of the losers to the pits dug in the woods. Sam could see the
benefit of working together to make sure they all came out of the ring in one
piece. He was sure he could make the idea of pack work, bind them together.
The day he'd first opened his eyes in that warehouse, there had been thirteen
boys and girls. Now there were six, counting himself; six that the owner seemed
pleased with, but they'd die anyway—in the ring, in training—unless things
changed. Sam saw the value of pack…he saw the safety of it. Izrafil was there
already, because of what he was, because he'd already attached himself to Sam,
not that Sam minded. There were other parts of pack life that Izrafil
explained, some good, some not. When they were allowed to share spots, Iz
showed him what was good, wrapped around him when they slept. Nice when Iz
wrapped slim, dry hands around Sam and made nice noises. He didn't mind it at
all. But they could have more than that, all of them could. He just had to be
careful….
The next time they were let loose to walk in the sun, Sam walked slowly and
carefully up to Asael, hands up, and head tilted. "We need to speak," he
whispered, "where they can't see us."
Asael peered at him suspiciously, but with a tiny, tiny flicker of hope in his
worried eyes. "Let me see your thoughts," he said. Sam took a deep breath and
thinned a spot in the wall he'd built around himself….
                                      =+=
                                   June 2003
There had been thirteen, now there were six.
Sam had the blood of two on his hands but they hadn't been pack then. Now they
were pack and there were still six of them. The Owner watched them, well aware
of the change. He seemed pleased with Sam, very pleased. Could be because they
won all their bouts…maybe it was something else. Sam was relieved; he'd been
worried that all they were supposed to do was die. But no, ever since they'd
built their pack, Sam only ever felt a thick, sticky sense of satisfaction from
the Owner.
The dead werewolf who'd unknowingly saved their lives was replaced by a new
one. This one was different—this one didn't curse until they were hoarse and
bite at their own flesh, roll in their filth…Sam wondered if this one was sane.
When Sam came to welcome the new wolf into their pack, she screamed with
laughter, and hocked a thick glob of spit in his face. Sam calmly wiped it off
with the edge of his t-shirt while she slammed her face into the bars until the
skin split and she was bleeding. Sam backed away from the bars, out of range of
the splatter. Well, he had his answer—definitely insane. She threatened to tear
them all to bits and pee on the shreds for daring to call themselves pack.
"They're my pack; show a little respect for them—"
"Pack? Pack? You half-demon freak! You're just—top dog of a buncha ratty little
mutts. You don’t know pack if it fucked you in the ass, you little shit!" she
cried. "If you knew what it was like to be cut off—" she shuddered—"you
wouldn't pretend…get OUT!" She reared back and spit at Sam again, cursed him
until he finally left her alone.
She didn't know anything, Sam thought. He did know what it was like to not be
pack. It was death and waiting for the one next to you to kill you in the
night. It was lonely and cold and now, it wasn't. This was them together, this
was pack. This was all they had.
                                      =+=
Being pack helped, but it didn't always mean they won. And a few nights past,
Sam had lost—bad.
One moment of inattention…he'd had the fighter down, he'd felt the win. He'd
pushed his arm into her throat and felt her windpipe crack. He'd felt it like
deep satisfaction, his prick went heavy between his legs and he'd known, this
one was his. The crowd howled when he'd yanked her pants down, the Owner
shouting his approval—it was his right; in that moment, in the ring, he'd owned
her. She'd lain loose against the floor, barely moving as Sam pushed his hips
against her. He'd had his own pants open, just enough to pull out his prick,
already stiff. His hand wrapped around it and he'd squeezed, hard. That…it
wasn't the feeling he had with Iz or Ana…it was always different, crazy,
tangled…different. He'd wanted to scream. He'd wished what he always
wished—that he could kill all of them, everyone, the thought making his prick
jump and he'd bit his cheek until the blood dripped to keep from screaming out
loud…..
He'd felt her heart thundering against his chest, how she went cold through
their thin t-shirts. He'd felt blood under the hand he held over her mouth, the
whimpers gasped into his palm. Tears had rolled from the corners of her closed
eyes and for one second, one moment, less than a blink, he'd felt sorry for
her—he was her, had been in that place.
His arm slipped, his hips stilled. And she'd reared up and locked her legs
around him, flipping him and slamming his head against the floor. The pain
bleached the world white, but he'd seen her spit a glittering, little knife
into her palm, no bigger than the tip of his finger. He jerked and the tiny
knife missed his throat, had opened the skin over his collarbone instead, so
clean at first he didn't feel it. It skipped off the bone and over his shoulder
into the ground. And then Tami was there.
Tamiel grabbed her by the hair and yanked, screaming in rage—in the end, the
fighter had been nothing but a heap of flesh smoking away next to him—
That fighter had almost killed him, but worse, he'd lost them the fight and
he'd lost points. He'd cost the Owner…what, Sam didn’t know, just…it was bad.
Very bad.
                                      =+=
Bad meant the punishment cell. He'd already been in the cell a few days as far
as he could tell, sitting alone in the dark. The door creaked open, startling
him, and when the single bulb that lit the cell flicked on, he curled in
against the sudden, painful, shock. He tried to move away from the door but his
knotted muscles wouldn’t let him. Cramps that had started out mild and annoying
were now taking huge gnawing, grinding bites out of him. When he smelled the
pennies coke that Uncle Luke carried to him, his mouth burst with saliva,
running down his chin before he could catch it. He watched Uncle Luke put the
drink on the floor of the cell. When Uncle turned to Sam, the light caught the
whip he held. He swished it gently over the floor, shish, shish as the tiny
hooks braided in the whip caught against the concrete.
"You know the rules, Samyaza. You lost the fight. You know that brought us
down. Lucky for you, your stupid mistake didn't lose us any of the crew. Go to
the corner, hold the post."
Sam ran to the corner, shucked off the tattered t-shirt and gripped the post
until his knuckles popped, went white with the strain.
"Sloppy, that's what Zee said. Said you weren't focused. Weak. Tsk." Uncle Luke
shook his head. "You make me sad, Sam, and the Owner too. So sad." But he was
grinning from ear to ear. "Three strikes, dog boy, that's all. Ready now, Sam,
rea—"
The first strike made Sam scream. The second made him fall to his knees. At the
third, he just tried to keep breathing. He felt blood run down his back, though
not as much as he expected. Uncle emptied a bucket of water over him and gave
him the coke.
"Owner's choice—he's being merciful," Uncle Luke said. "Swear, it's sweet how
much he likes you. And to show you just how forgiving we are, I've invited a
playmate to spend a little time with you. The Owner thinks it'll be a good
reminder for you—make you remember you're supposed to be top dog in any
situation…well," he chuckled, "except this sitch."
A tall figure stooped through the doorway of the basement cell. Sam's eyes
rolled, his breath came fast, short and sharp, his ribcage jumping with the
work of breathing. He backed to the rear of the cell, whining out loud no
matter how hard he tried to keep it in. The man—not man, owner—followed him,
his grin getting wider with each step. "I've been given the right over you
tonight. Which means we get to play, all night long, if I want…sounds like fun,
don't it?"
Sam's head rolled back and forth, 'no, no,' he mouthed, not breaking training
even though he was terrified. His spine pressed uncomfortably hard against the
gritty bricks, every place the whip had touched on fire. He blinked and was in
the ring again, this time, he was the one begging, burning on the floor—
 
"Hey! Stay with me, mutt, you don’t want to miss this," it laughed, and made
Sam take his pants halfway down and turn to face the wall. Sam closed his eyes
and frantically recited, over and over, the ABCs. He could feel the owner
sloshing around the edges of Sam's mind, trying to send a slick, cloying
tendril of itself inside him but the brand burned into his shoulder blocked it.
He felt the pack's distress like cold, choppy water. There was nothing they
could do—it was owner business. All they could do was obey.
When he woke in the morning he was in Iz's cage, wrapped in his blanket. He was
wet and bleeding, his body one screaming ache from head to toe. Iz was crying,
making the sign for 'okay' and 'question'. Are you okay, are you okay?
Sam nodded, yes, yes, yes… he was breathing, he knew his name, he was alone
inside, yes, he was okay.
Uncle Luke let him sleep all day with Israfil, and Iz stayed in dog shape. Sam
lay on his belly and rested his head against Iz's warm, furry side. Uncle even
let the rest of the pack in with them. He gave Sam full cups of the coke and
more food than he'd ever had at one time. Iz told Sam he thought Uncle was
scared—that the owner had gone too far, done more than he should have. Maybe.
He thought that maybe that was true, because he didn't fight or train for a
couple of weeks, and that particular owner never came again.
                                      =+=
                                 October 2003
Sam picked up a handful of leaves and let them fall again from his hand,
enjoying the flash of color as they drifted.
He trailed the handful as they trooped back inside—breaktime was over and Uncle
was hustling them into their cages for the night. It was cold again, promising
to get colder, and the moon was a few weeks from full. That meant the werewolf
in the separate cell was almost ready to be put in the ring. It also meant
moving. Sam could tell even if he hadn't seen the moon was growing. She got
more and more short-tempered and mean, and that one hadn't ever been nice at
all. She cried in her sleep though, she did that a lot, and more as time grew
closer to the big moon. He could hear her knocking against the bars and
whimpering. Sometimes it set the pack off and then there'd be no sleep for
anyone. She was falling to pieces like the were before her. That was on her.
She was welcome to be part of them at any time—it wasn't on them that she kept
herself apart.
Sam huffed, breathed the were out of his mind. He shifted on his mattress,
pulled his blanket higher. All the cages were filled, the light was out. A
crack in one of the shed windows let in a cold and damp wind—it made him miss
the warehouse. Sam wondered if the next place they moved to was going to be
warm. Maybe it'd be a house again, he liked staying in houses. Cold or warm
depended on where they moved to, some states were warmer than others, that's
what Uncle Luke said.
Moving day came and, as always, was hard on everyone. Their cages were stacked
one on top of the other, too tight and too close. Sometimes it felt like they
were on the road for days before getting a break, the stink of the truck and
each other building until any breath he took made him gag. The screech and the
roar of shifting metal and the truck engine kept him from sleeping. The low,
constant whimpering from Israfil, the wolf's never-ending moaning, set Sam's
teeth on edge. He knew they couldn't help it, wrapped up in the silver like
they were, so he kept his anger damped—Iz was pack and the wolf was—she was
almost as helpless as them. The best thing to do was curl tight as possible and
fight for sleep.
                                      =+=
The pack moved from the parked truck to a big, wide, building. As they shuffled
up the driveway, Sam's eyes adjusted to the dark and he saw the building was a
big house, with many windows and walls. Much bigger than any house they'd ever
seen—almost as big as the warehouse. They went around the back, through a gap
in the bushes that Sam saw was a wide gate pushed open. They were let in to the
house, and the chain clinked and rang as they stumbled to a stop.
The house was…Sam shivered. It was beautiful, shining with the light of what
looked like hundreds of candles. It was wonderful, like a dream. At first, Sam
only smelled candles; a faintly sweet scent like honey, a little smoke, Iz
behind him, and Zack in front. Then under the good smells crept others: mildew,
the damp smell of old, wet wood, blood, rotten meat…he shivered again, pleasure
leaching away. Uncle strapped Tami with a belt to get her moving and they all
shifted back into movement, the momentary false dream forgotten and business as
usual. Uncle and Master Zee marched the pack across the wide floor. The
werewolf was still knocked out, chained neck and legs to a cart. Sam saw the
tip of her tail twitch and her ribs expand, slow and deep.
The group shuffle-ran from the entrance into a hallway, heavy chains dragging
through a few thin drifts of dried leaves scattered here and there. They moved
carefully but fast, many years having trained them how to move together quickly
when their ankles were chained. The chain ran the length of the line, from
collar to collar, and it bounced against Samyaza's chest, twisting the t-shirt
he wore. The weight and motion of the chain barely registered with him anymore.
What he felt more strongly was cold and hunger, but that was something he'd
also become used to—an empty belly before the fight.
Under his skin it felt like he was full of buzzing, buzzing, millions of little
flies with sharp feet crawling under his skin. He was used to this as well—the
sick energy of unmixed blood. His prick fattened up, thinking of more of it
after the fight, if he won big. Ana ran closer to him on the line, rubbing
against him a bit. He grinned at her and she grinned back, chuckled a little
when Iz lifted his lip at her.
After this fight and the next two coming up, they'd move again, be loaded into
trucks and sent to some house or camp to recoup and wait for the werewolf to
give in to the pull again ...if she survived this evening. Packless made her a
target, left her alone. Sam shook his head. She was a stubborn bitch.
Zack coughed, caught Sam's eye when he looked. Rolled his lip up, narrowed his
eyes and Sam gave a bare nod. Werewolf, vampire, Zack had told him, his nose
being better and Sam being towed under by too many thoughts to tease one out
from the other. But now he knew what they'd be fighting this evening, and being
prepared always helped. A shudder worked its way down Sam's spine, dispelled in
a subtle motion of his shoulders and fingers. Samyaza was careful not to make
any outward sign of emotion—Master Zee didn't like it, not before a fight. Not
after either.
Sam drew up short. He'd been so deep in his thoughts he almost hadn't heard the
handlers call a stop. They were at the foot of a huge stairway. Above them, a
second floor stood open, sheets of plastic hung haphazardly where Sam could
see. It was the Owner. He was looking down on them. He was looking, Sam felt,
right into his eyes and Sam felt the air in his chest turn thick. The Owner
smiled down at them and Sam was flooded with a gluey, sticky feeling of
excitement. His heart felt like it was trying to beat inside a tightening cage.
All the pack dropped their eyes and pulled in their shoulders. The instinct to
appear small as possible took them all. Uncle Luke broke the spell by shouting,
"Step it up, little soldiers, step it up!" They trotted forward, following the
direction Master pointed in. Sam chanced another look but the Owner was gone.
They went up the stairs and were led into the first room—a huge room with icy,
tiled floors and walls. At one time, it might have been a shower room, a locker
room, but Sam didn’t know that. He could only see that it was a windowless room
tiled from floor to ceiling with metal pipes twisted out of the walls like
mangled limbs. "Kneel," Uncle shouted, as if they were all deaf, or stupid.
Samyaza had done nothing but obey for every day of his life that he could
remember. Shuffle-run on the chain from one place to another, kneel to be
unlocked. Kneel to be fed, to wash, to serve, kneel every day.
Master Zee came towards them with another man, one he called Master Que. They
walked along the line of Sam's pack, everyone kneeling and no one moving, not
the slightest shiver. Sam was proud of them. It was always harder when there
was a stranger. Master Que warned them that they all had to obey him like they
obeyed Master Zee, Uncle Luke, and that anyone who ran would be killed. Sam
managed not to roll his eyes. He felt the amusement of the pack. Anyone that
stupid had long been dead. Master Que told them that the weres, vamps, and
fighters were in another part of the building. That they'd fight them in two
days. That they were to bunk down here and cause no trouble. Food was coming.
Sam blanked on Master Que's droning, pointless rules. The pack knew the routine
in their bones. When they stood and shuffled to their place, Master Zee caught
Sam's eyes. Sam almost startled at the wisp of amusement Master felt. It was
oddly like…sharing. Sam quickly dropped his eyes. The line shuffled past,
business as usual.
They ate, washed in icy water, and then Uncle Luke came for Sam. They didn't
head down, like he expected. They crossed another hallway, past a huge empty
pit in the floor. Sam stared at the pit and wondered what it was for until he
saw humans throwing sawdust on top of the tiles, some setting up the chain-link
fencing brought in from the trucks.
Sam dropped his head, the cross-breeze from empty windows chill on his shaved
head. Uncle Luke stopped in front of a tall, dark wood door, bright metal
handles gleaming from a recent cleaning. He opened the door and pushed Sam in
before closing it.
Sam blinked hard, trying to adjust for the dark. A few candles burned here and
there around the room, not doing much; the feeble light eaten up by the dark
wooden walls and ceiling of the room. He heard whispering, snatches of soft
laughter; something was slithering in the shadows. The smell of mildew, blood,
rot, was stronger in the closed room. The was a snick, and a flare of light,
more candles flamed into life, and then he saw.
"Samyaza. My Little General…not so little anymore. It's going to be a good
night, a good fight. I feel it."
The Owner sat at a table, his hands folded around a stubby glass full of
something dark and sharp-smelling. He was smiling at Sam. Around him, in the
shadows, were other owners, but only the Owner and two other yellow-eyed owners
wore fancy clothes. The others were dressed like trainers but their hot,
slippery thoughts and their black eyes gave them away. Those black-eyed ones
went rigid when Samyaza went to Kneel, he felt their jagged, clawing thoughts,
full of want and bite and tear….
He swallowed a sudden, thick flood of saliva and tried not to move or make a
sound. He could only imagine one reason to be locked in a room with owners…too
many moons had passed since he'd been a party gift. He was old, he'd thought he
was safe from this. Foolish thoughts to have. His heart beat harder, faster; he
swallowed bright acid fear and kept still as he could. It would hurt, but it
might hurt less if he didn't excite the owners. And afterward, there'd be blood
to heal him and get him in fighting shape. Sam was never sure if the feeling he
got when he thought of that was excitement or fearful disgust.
The Owner stared at him with a small distracted smile and tugged the neat
lapels of his suit even neater. Ice and frozen blood, darkness and low, muffled
screaming, that was the feel Sam got from the yellow-eyed ones.
It suddenly occurred to Sam with a rush of deep horror, that maybe he wasn't
meant to be a toy this evening. Could he, had he failed in some way? Maybe he'd
done something to lose the favor of the Owner. He knew what that meant. It had
happened before there was a pack, and one of the kids, Owner-named Gabriel—Sam
hadn't had time to learn his old name—was slowly, slowly, made to die. They'd
had to watch, and Sam hadn't slept for days afterwards....
Sam hoped with every part of him if this was his end, that it was going to be a
fast death.
The Owner emptied his glass and laughed, reading Sam's terror. "Don't worry,
Sam, you're good. I just wanted my boys to see you—you being my favorite and
all. Stand up."
Sam rose slowly, feeling like his stomach was about to pour out of his middle.
He laced his hands over his belly, the feeling was so strong. The yellow-eyed
ones spoke together in a language Sam didn't understand, their voices buzzed
like burning bees underneath his skull.
"Good news, boy, you're coming with me tonight —if you make it out of the ring,
of course. I'll be very disappointed if you don't," he smiled and Sam wavered,
not sure what to do—assure him, smile back, rip his own throat out…"All right,
you go let your trainer take you to your…pack," he smiled and the other yellow-
eyed owners murmured. They sounded pleased and Owner smiled wider. "Tell him I
want you all in the ring now."
Sam moved as quickly as was politely possible, fighting every instinct that
told him he needed to turn around, protect his back. He shut the door, and
Uncle Luke was right there in the hallway. He looked relieved to see Sam, but
Sam wasn't stupid enough to think the relief had anything to do about Sam and
his safety. All Sam said was, "The Owner says it's time."
                                      =+=
They were dropped into the odd lop-sided pit and set to work. The first fight
went quickly; just some humans, dirty and sick-smelling, their thoughts either
skittering like roaches or glugging like watery oatmeal out of a cup. They gave
Sam a stick and took Tamiel's mitts off. Any human that didn't die from a
broken neck or the shock of being burned was finished off by Izrafil.
Zack they held back until the rival wolves were loosed, and then all the pack
plus their own werewolf were let into the ring. There was a moment of shock
when they realized the other wolves weren't a cobbled together pack of
strangers but a real pack, mated and tied to each other. Sam heard the dead
were's voice saying "We are one, and we are many…were many….their werewolf
howled and Sam was pretty sure she'd just gone a little crazier….
They slipped and scrambled over pieces of human and puddles of blood. Asa and
Ana and himself were mostly in the way, and they tried their best to keep
aside. Zack had the strength and the resistance to the weres' infectious
saliva, Tami had the advantage of being untouchable, and Iz was ferocious in
his dog form. But the wolf pack fought like they had one brain and Sam thought
that this was the night his pack was going down.
They weren't completely defenseless; Asal's gift might be useless against the
weres in wolf form, but Sam directed Asa to make the weres' handlers think they
were losing and give conflicting orders. It wasn't much but it slowed the weres
a bit—Ana caught wisps of their futures, that let Sam send Iz and Zack in and
out of the fight at the right points in time—
Suddenly the owners were screaming and hellhounds were in the ring, and wolves
were exploding left and right. Humans came pouring into the room, but they were
different than humans Sam had seen before—they smelled and felt different.
Their minds were loud and straight, sharp like knives and focused on one
thing—destroy the owners.
Over the screaming, the shouting, Sam became aware of another sound, one he
knew well—the buzzing, crackling sound of owners tossing power. The doors to
the fight room blew off and there they were, the Yellow Eyed, covered in blood
and with guts hanging from them like broken ropes.
They were headed for the pit, tearing apart any humans and or hellhounds in
their way. The Yellow Eyed ripped through the metal fence, jumped into the pit,
reaching for them. Sam heard bones snap and Tamiel collapsed, dead before she
hit the floor.
One of the Yellow Eyed jumped into the pit and scooped up Asa, who broke like a
stick when the owner threw him over its shoulder— a crack rang out and the
owner went down, burning with a strange fire inside. Again a crack rang out and
another Yellow Eyed burned. Sam whirled on what was left of his pack, pushed
them into the corner behind him. Ana was crying, some future dream breaking
her, Zack tried to squirm away, wanting to help keep the dogs off. Sam made Iz
change back to boy—a smaller target, easier to hide. Sam pressed his pack
behind him with the hot breath of the hellhound in his face. One came too
close; Sam brought his fist down on its head and cracked the neck. Sam
stuttered with surprise—the thing wasn't a hellhound—Zack could have broken a
hellhound's neck but not Sam, he didn't have Zack's strength.
Sam forced himself back to attention, blinked blood and sweat out of his eyes.
He had to keep his pack safe, no matter what else, they needed him—he owed
them. His eyes pricked, he whipped his head to fling the tears away. Not time,
not time…his throat hurt, and he realized he was screaming, "Mine" and "no" at
the top of his lungs. Even in the thick of it, the craziness, he felt a
lightning stab of worry about shouting…
 
More lights flooded the room, the air was full of screaming, shouting—shrieking
owners and the screaming trainers—hot, stinking air pressing down on him.
Clawing, ripping, blood-filled thoughts beating at him, pulling him deeper and
deeper and then, something cool, pure, bright knifed straight though Sam. His
mouth was still twisted in a snarl, his eyes narrowed, but he felt grounded
now, aware of Iz behind him and Ana trying to tuck under his arm and Zack
pressed against his left side, protecting his pack. It swept him again, a flash
of something, a feel of spring leaves and warm water flowing over him and then
the feel shattered like glass—hurt like being thrown through a window. Sam
howled, fighting for that feeling of life, of safe—
The Owner had him, pinned him to the ground with a foot on his neck. "Well,
well, Samyaza, we have distinguished company this evening. Say hello and good
bye to Dean Winchester, maybe you'll catch up with him in Hell someday."
Sam wanted to cry—he had no idea what the Owner was saying, what he meant—the
Owner laughed and it made the foot on Sam's neck jitter and rubbed his cheek
into the bloody sawdust.
He yelped out loud when the Owner jerked—the Owner howled in shock and pain,
and his foot rolled off Sam's neck. Sam instantly tried to scramble away; he
smelled burning meat and then blood, he was showered in hot blood—his whole
body seized with it—more than he'd ever had ran into his mouth and nose and
eyes and it blew him apart inside, it felt like Tami shoving bare hands into
him, over and over—his prick went rock-hard, felt good—too good, was going to
kill him with good and then it emptied and he was lying in blood and come and
the Owner, who'd owned him his whole life, who knew Sam was a killer and wanted
him that way, who made him suffer so much but gave Sam incredible pleasure as
well…was gone. The empty case of meat and bone fell down and Sam could see that
it had eyes the color of water in a storm. Sam was thankful for the blackness
when it came.
                                      =+=
Sam came awake, but kept his eyes closed, waiting to feel out what was
happening. The too-loud feelings of his pack blocked his efforts, so he eased
his eyes open and felt…crushed. Destroyed. It was all the same—he'd had a dream
that it was different, better…safer, but it was just the same.
They were surrounded by trainers and Masters; he knew them by their black
clothes and flat, quiet thoughts. There were bars around them. Of course.
They'd only been traded from one cell to another. Sam hid his face in his hands
and finally let the tears fall. He'd thought…hoped that maybe with the Yellow
Eyed dead, they might get away from this life, do…something. Go somewhere not
full of pain and blood. But they were still in a cell, still ruled by trainers.
Sam didn't know if it was worth it to keep on breathing.
"Top…"'Top, you okay, right?' he felt Zack's fingers move against his back and
sighed—managed to work up a smile for Zack. Zack's tension lessened and he
dropped to a squat next to Sam. 'They haven't done anything. They dumped us in
here and so far, we just been waiting for you to come to.' He grinned when Sam
cuffed him. Iz jumped up and settled himself between Sam's legs.
'Not as bad as it looks, truth, Top.' Iz nodded. 'I remember humans like this,
places like this. They're not going to kill us.' "…pretty sure." He grinned and
Sam snorted. Iz had a way of getting under Sam's skin, in a good way. He
relaxed against the furry warm press of Iz's mind.
Zack turned to Iz. 'They're not bad?' He looked to Ana 'are they bad?'
Ana slid under Sam's arm. She shook her head. 'No, not bad…not good. ' She
shrugged. 'We have to hope for the best.'
Sam wanted to pin her down—it wasn't like Ana to be so vague and that made him
suspicious. Her feel was like muddy water.
'Here comes one to look at the freaks.' Iz glared at whoever was outside the
bars. He pushed himself against Sam, hard, as if to block him. Sam looped an
arm around Iz and rubbed his nose against the back of his neck. It was cute,
that Iz wanted to protect him…something rolled over his mind, like warm fur
against bare skin…not Iz's thoughts. A strange feel, brushing soft through his
head, spring leaves and warm water…he knew that feel. He glanced up to see a
human—the human, the one who'd killed the Owner. Sam got an impression of leaf-
colored eyes looking back, and then he was gone. Sam wanted him back…wanted to
thank him for giving them even this much freedom, even if it was just for a
moment. Sam would never forget him.
                                      =+=
They were moved out of the cell, but no one separated them. They let Sam lead
what was left of his pack into a bright room filled with tables, nothing else.
No hooks on the wall, no chain bolted to the floor …maybe Ana was right and
they weren't all bad. Yet.
They moved straight to a wall, with a wall behind them and Zack and himself in
front so Iz and Ana would be safe. The humans watched them. They stared, their
thoughts jumped all over: curious, worried, sad, disgusted. The humans looked
at the blood flaking off them, the dirt, the rags they were in. They didn't
understand. Some did, and the sad coming from them made Sam's insides churn.
Stop, stop.
One of the humans came out of the group, eyes on Sam and grinning like a wolf—a
clear challenge. Finally, something Sam understood. The human lunged and Sam
knew he'd have to take this one out fast and hard—make rank as fast as he could
to protect his pack. He dropped, faked weak to coax the human near, then lashed
out and felt satisfaction when he heard the pop and felt the bone collapse in
his knee. He was down and Sam wasted no time, he sank his teeth in. Better to
make a kill straight off than to cripple, he thought. There was no victory, no
pleasure in it. More of the same, there would always be more and more of the
same until he was dead. Sam ground his teeth tighter, wondered would it be
better, could he let go, let Zack take his place, just make it stop….
There was noise and his pack yelling and the humans shouting, pain, snap, snap,
snap, in his shoulder, his back, and then he was falling into dark again and he
hoped, hoped that this time he wouldn't wake up.
                                      =+=
Samyaza and Israfil watched their other two packmates wander the boundaries of
the compound, which as near as Sam could figure out, was another word for
prison.
The wind was chill, to Iz anyway; he complained of it, a constant, querulous
grumbling on the edge of Sam's awareness. Sam rarely complained of cold, and
this little breeze just ruffled his hair and plucked at his new shirt. He
smoothed a hand down the too-large denim shirt and smiled a little. It'd been a
long time since he'd had a shirt, especially one like this—clean, new, all in
one piece. The shoes he wore fit just right; the pants were long enough and not
too big. They all had new clothes…there were things to like here, sure, but in
the end, it was just another cage like Uncle's, only bigger.
When he'd first opened his eyes in this place, finding everyone sleeping around
him, he'd felt such disappointment. Still alive…but he only allowed himself a
moment, before he'd breathed deep, straightened. They needed him. When they
woke, it was important that they saw Sam waiting for them, looking out for
them. So that's what they'd seen when they opened their eyes; their pack head
smiling, arms open.
Sam looked out over the wide yard, the tall fence, the benches set around what
was probably supposed to be grass but was mostly dry ground, with patches of
weeds struggling to green. He glanced up at the grey sky. They were alive. That
was important. It counted.
Iz shivered at his side, so hard his teeth clattered. Sam chuckled and pulled
the shaking boy close. Sam wrapped around him, his arms locked over the thin
chest, and he tucked the bony skull under his chin—he knew Iz shivered from
more than the cold. He was afraid—of course, they were all afraid. The Owner
was dead, and Uncle Luke had disappeared somewhere into the human prison, and
this place seemed like the last fight for them. The humans here didn't treat
the pack badly, but they weren't especially kind, either. There were good
things besides warm clothes and good food. Their collars were gone, Iz's silver
chain, too. But…Samyaza noticed that Zaqiel and Israfil were kept separate from
them more and more often, that Ananiel and he ate at a long table…by
themselves. There were a few other fighters from other houses here, but they
didn't matter, they weren't pack like Ana or Zack and Iz….
                                      =+=
Sam could hear Ana crying, low, almost silent, like she had no hope, all
through the night. It was wrong to be separated, just like the were had said.
It hurt, the hurt clung like claws. This wasn't like losing a packmate in the
ring. It was like being endlessly punished for being bad, punishment without
relief.
He remembered what Ana had said, the night before the last fight. Something
he'd kept to himself.
"we'll be" the word 'apart' she breathed, then made the sign for Asael and
Tamiel, mimed breaking something, and rested a finger on her forehead, the sign
for dead. "Asa and Tami will die".
Ana had been clear; she'd been firm on that outcome. Sam had deferred to her
knowledge—had expected the outcome but hoped for better. Sam's ability was in
feeling what others thought, not farsight. It wasn't much—Uncle said Sam's
ability was in being a natural born leader and that's why the Owner liked him.
He'd rather have some practical talent like Zack's ability to throw off the
taint of were with the help of silver and salt and the water with something in
it that stung.
What was going to happen to them now, Sam had no idea. He tried to feel out the
humans, but it was getting harder and harder to do. Ana was losing her dreams
too. They were sick so much, fevers and aches, annoying, constant and growing
worse every day. The humans gave them water and medicine, if it got too bad,
made them to sleep but it didn't stop. Sometimes he begged for the blood, and
the humans looked at him like he was something disgusting….
He wasn't sure how long they'd been in the prison…he thought not too long,
maybe two handfuls of days. He'd begun to doubt they had a future. The looks
they got from the humans grew icy now; they wore the smell-bad look when they
came to feed or walk them. Sam felt their thoughts less, but their feelings
were no mystery. They hated the pack. It wouldn't be long, Sam thought, before
they decided the pack was too broken for humans, and they'd do what Uncle did
with the fighters too broken to be worth fixing. He and Ana walked the yard,
alone as always. The other fighters kept their distance because they knew who
Ana's and Sam's owner had been—fear of the Yellow-Eyed lingering past their
deaths. Sam didn't mind. Those others were nothing but killers. The pack was
more. Ana sat on a bench, her hands going to her head. "Oh. No…they're taking
Zack," she said, all words aloud and the words aloud scared Sam more than what
she'd said…
There was a shout, his name, and Iz was suddenly there, kneeling in the dirt in
front of Ana, crying silent tears. Rage bubbled through Sam at the thought that
Iz had been punished, but Iz shook his head, signed he was fine. 'Zack is gone.
We went to sleep and I woke up, and he's gone.'
Sam concentrated, searching for even a hint of Zack's cheerful, zig-zagging
feel, but there was nothing at all. Ana moaned, a small, helpless noise. She
nodded. 'Gone to a different place—they took him.' "It will be bad…" she bit
her lips, gnawed until they swelled, and a bead of blood sprang up…she closed
her eyes and shook her head and refused to speak.
'Don’t let them take me too, Samyaza. Don't let them take me.'
Sam shrugged, shook his head like Ana had. 'I can't stop them, Iz. I have no
power over them. I can't make them listen anymore I could make Uncle Luke
listen, or make an owner listen. They're the same. No one cares.'
Iz nodded frantically. 'Yes, yes, it will be more of the same but I'll be
alone. Without my packmates, what will I do? They'll take me apart. Please,
please don't let them, Samyaza, please.' Iz dropped to his knees and pressed
his face to Sam's thigh. 'Will you help me, Samyaza, head of our pack?'
Sam's face crumbled, he wanted to push Iz away, not make this promise, but he
understood. It was just…there was no one to help him. He sighed. It was the
duty he'd given himself when they made themselves pack. He was bound to that
word. "Israfil, 'I will. I promise.'
'Now?'
Ana gasped, and ran for the doors. Iz flinched. 'She's going to stop you?'
'No, she just doesn't want to see.'
The guards walking along the yard watched Ana run curiously but didn't go after
her—she had nowhere to run to. Iz shifted, his long lean body wavering and
reforming into a golden, thick-furred dog. His yellow eyes gleamed out of a
black mask, tracked Sam's movements. Sam scratched his ears, rubbing hard the
way Iz liked; he bowled him over and scratched his belly. Iz's tail beat the
dust from the yard. He leaped up and chased around the yard, carefully avoiding
the guards. The both of them dashed and ran around the yard, rolling each other
over, wrestling and growling. Iz threw himself against Sam, long tongue
sweeping his face, little whimpers filling Sam's ears, "Shift," Sam said and he
shifted back and said, pack mate, and Sam snapped his neck.
He spent two days confined and chained, and on the third day, he was led out of
the tiny, dark cell, pushed into a van like the van that had brought them to
the prison. He looked back through the little windows in the van watching the
prison disappear. He never knew what became of Zack or Ana.
                                      =+=
***** Sam&Dean *****
[Part 3]
2003
1
Dean watched them shove the kid who was supposed to be his brother into
shotgun, strapping him in like a bag of laundry. He listed sideways in the
seat, muscles slack, heavy-limbed and barely conscious. His hands were loosely
tied together with zipties. "Vic, damn it dude—what the fuck? What the fuck?"
Dean stared through the window at the drooping lump held in place by the
seatbelt.
Vic shrugged. "The zips are mostly for his sake. He tends to come to already
swinging, but if his hands are tied, he…slows down a bit. He's just scared when
he wakes up, is all. He's not…he's not a bad kid, from what I hear."
Dean stared him down—Vic sounded an awful lot like he had when talking about
his fucking K-9 unit.
"What happens next for you 'n' him…man, I don't know. No one knows what to do
with them. The human ones, I mean. One thing I do know, in the long run, it's
going to be okay. You're a tough sonofabitch too, Dean. You're going to make
it—the both of you." Vic broke eye contact, glanced down at the snoring kid in
the front seat. "You got your brother back, though…right? What's more important
than that?"
"Whatever, dude. Just—" At this point, Dean just wanted to get in the car and
drive them both as far away from Kansas as he could. Vic gave Dean a one-armed
dude-hug, pressed a bunch of pamphlets in his hand and pulled reluctantly away,
leaving Dean alone with the stranger they claimed was his family. He glanced
down at the pamphlets in his hand. They looked about useless—how to go about
dealing with PTSD, recommendations for therapy—the kind of shit the state
shoves at you when they're fucked on what to do and pretty much want to toss
the responsibility into the victim's lap. Dean tossed them in the back, where
they slid off the seat and onto the floor. Well, fuck that noise, he thought.
He'd handle it, one way or another, like a Winchester.
                                      =+=
The road rumbled under the car's tires, a steady, comfortable hum against flat
asphalt—the true rhythm of his life. The drive was a straight run; mindless,
boring, the land around them flat as a plate and bare of most anything. Dean
didn't mind much, it meant he had a lot of time to look at this stranger, his
brother.
The kid was still knocked out, so deep under he was snoring. Dean couldn't help
snatching looks at him, trying to see that little Sammy he still had pictured
in his mind. The boy was marked up pretty good, with weird tats, and fuck if he
wasn't as scarred as Dean. He couldn't be older than…Dean sighed. Like he
didn't know exactly how old the boy was. Each and every birthday—all twenty of
them—were etched on his soul. He reached slowly across the seat, drew careful
fingertips across Sam's scalp. He was warm, warmer than he should be. Probably
from the shit they shot him up with before dumping him in the car. Dean's nails
bumped over a half-moon scar, long healed, dug in the crown of Sam's roughly-
shorn head. It was a terrible job of shaving, looked like the kid had done it
himself with a piece of broken bottle in the dark. Another scar twisted down
the long length of his oddly delicate neck. Where the collar of his state-
issued T-shirt gaped, his shoulder was peppered with small, silvery scars…Dean
wondered what made a mark like that.
Dean drove as he stole glances at his passenger's angular face. Dean could see
some John there—the dark hair and the curve of his chin, that was John. Dean
tried to see some trace of himself in that sleeping face but couldn't. Maybe
the color of the kid's eyes, maybe that little cleft in his chin? "Sam…Sam," he
whispered to himself, feeling out the shape and sound of it, the idea of it.
The road rolled away, and patchy bits of scrub gave way to fields of dried
grass, whispering and muttering in the wind of their passing. Dean stared out
through the windshield, tapped his fingers against the steering wheel. Ramble
On spooled out of the deck, turned low enough that he could still hear Sam's
light snoring…the sound was good, somehow it already felt right to him.
"Sammy, we'll fix it, I promise. We'll make this better." Dean's eyes went to
the S tattooed under his brother's left eye, a stylized sword, numbers that
might be a date, or a code…they came to a stop right above a mole. Dean took
his hand off the wheel and carefully laid his finger on the mole. His brother's
skin was still too warm, and a little too dry. Dean's finger looked pale
compared to the tan of Sam's skin. He traced upwards, across the narrow bridge
of his nose, higher over his wide forehead. Dean's eyes went back to the road
but his palm flattened out over the curve of Sam's head. Memory told him how
wrong the feel of that uneven, hacked-off bristle was. His fingers, his heart,
told him that Sam's hair should be long, soft and silky, and that it liked to
twine around Dean's fingers. Sam's hair was supposed to smell like Johnson's
baby shampoo and little boy.
Evening was coming on and the flat land was giving up its heat; the sun rode a
white-hot chariot down to the horizon, painting the clouds orange and red and
violet….
Before long the first stars bloomed and the moon made its appearance, and still
Sam slept on and Dean just drove and stole look after look, touched when he
could. "Sam" ran on an endless loop in his brain.
                                      =+=
They were eating up road pretty good; they were a couple of hours out from
Bobby's when Sam started coming around. He shivered and moaned and rolled
mostly upright, banging his head against Dean's shoulder and rebounding off
into the passenger side window, right back to where he'd been. Dean huffed a
soft laugh—Sam waking up was interesting, certainly active. He was turned
towards Dean when his eyes opened, but he didn't appear to be seeing much of
anything—he had a glazed, unfocused look. His lips were pink and loose with
sleep. He made sticky, smacking sounds as he tried to wake, and Dean had a
brief flare of fondness that felt both familiar and foreign at once—like this
kind of goofy-sweet waking was normal for Sam, like Dean had been a part of it
before. Memory? Like the feeling in his fingers that told him Sam's hair was
wrong?
A little string of spit dangled from the corner of Sam's mouth to where his
face had been pressed against the seat back.
"Dude, you're wetting my car," Dean murmured, and rubbed the spot away with his
thumb. Sam blinked lazily, and smiled a little, sort of loose and kind of
goofy, and Dean felt the knot in his chest ease slightly—I can do this, I'm
sure of it. Sam blinked again, more aware now, and his face tightened. The
ghost of little Sammy vanished and Dean felt a pang at the loss of that soft,
unfocused…happy look.
Despite what Vic had warned, Sam was strangely calm, even when he looked down
at the ties around his on his hands. He hardly seemed to notice they were
bound—like waking up hog-tied was a normal occurrence for him. He tried to sign
something in that private language the kids had used, huffed softly in
frustration when Dean didn’t understand. Dean squinted at his brother. Dean
knew the boy could talk. He'd heard him in the pit when everything went
haywire, yelling and cursing his damn brains out, so it was obvious there was
nothing wrong with his voice or his hearing…a hunch made him say, "Hey, ki—Sam.
You can speak to me, it's okay." The kid looked skeptical, so Dean put a little
bass in his voice. "Speak aloud."
His request definitely came out sounding more like a command, and Dean was
about to apologize when Sam eyed him uneasily, licked his lips and spoke.
"Where am I?" he asked, sitting straighter and looking about. It was
practically a whisper but at least he spoke—could speak and Dean was glad of
that.
"In a car with me," Dean laughed softly. "Heading towards South Dakota. You
understand?"
Sam looked puzzled but still calm; aftereffects of the drugs, maybe…training,
probably. Dean was just grateful he wasn't trying to kick out the window or
something. "Car, yes. South…Dakota. A place. A state?" Sam turned his head to
look out the window, his fingers moving smoothly, purposefully—when he realized
what he was doing he flinched, his fingers curling into a fist, a tide of red
sweeping up his neck.
Dean watched this stranger out of the corner of his eye. This—kid, his brother,
wasn't anything like he'd expected. He'd imagined he'd be dealing with someone
who was basically a two-footed pit bull, that's what he'd been afraid of. But
Sam seemed aware, curious and eager to please. This just might work out, just
like Vic said it would. Dean told himself that, swore by that, and kept on
driving.
                                      =+=
It was him…the human…trainer? The one who'd killed the Owner. Sam's heart beat
wildly for a moment, settled when the man did nothing but drive. Sam risked
glances at him, careful not to draw his attention. Sam found he liked looking
at him. He was pretty, like Tami had been. He gave off a good feeling, strong
enough that it was fairly easy for Sam to get; again Sam caught the hint of
spring leaves from him, and a smooth flow, like slow water. Not jangly and
jagged and full of black hooks, like Uncle Luke. He was soothing to sit next
to. He didn't seem as though he'd mind questions—besides, Sam knew as long as
the man was driving, he wouldn't be able to hit accurately or hard, so he
asked, "Samyaza has been gifted?" He made the gift sign and the question sign,
but the man just wrinkled his nose and shook his head. A hot bolt of worry
stabbed Sam's chest—he'd signed again when the man wanted him to speak aloud.
Sam controlled his urge to cringe and froze in his seat, waiting for whatever
was coming next.
The man shook his head. "Words, please," he said in a tone that Sam couldn't
read, but the man kept his hands on the wheel so Sam steeled himself. He knew
his voice was grating, but if this man wanted him to speak, then he better
speak. He asked a different question, an easier one, less words. "Who…you?" Out
of habit, he still made the question sign against his thigh, but the man didn't
seem to notice so Sam relaxed fractionally.
"Who am I? I'm Dean, Dean Winchester."
He gave Sam a piercing look as he said his name, like he was waiting for
something, some reaction. Sam was confused. He tried to give the Dean man what
he thought Dean wanted. "Samyaza," he said and tapped his chest, but of course,
that hadn't been what the man wanted at all. Dean's face went still like a
mask, his leaf-colored eyes flashing dangerous and dark. The little flecks of
color dashed across his face stood out as the rest of the man's face went
paler. Sam knew what came next when a test was failed—he dodged backwards,
trying to get out of the line of fire. His hands went up instinctively to
shield his head. He hissed, cursed himself under his breath. Another mistake.
Some owners wanted Sam to defend himself, and some got mad if he did. Maybe he
wasn't supposed to give himself a name; it was the trainer's, or the owner's
choice, to give him a name.
What the man did next confused the hell out of Sam. He coaxed Sam's hands down,
stroked them like Ana used to stroke Iz when he got too upset. Sam didn't get
it at all. Was Dean a trainer? He acted like an owner, but he wasn't. His smell
was human, nothing else. That sent a slick, oily tendril of disappointment
wiggling through him. This Dean was human, that meant no blood to share.
Blood…the humans at the prison spent huge amounts of very boring time telling
him that drinking the owner—the demon blood was terribly wrong, like that was
something Sam didn't know. They'd acted like the need was something Sam had
caused to be instead of it being forced on him, and then grumbling and
grudgingly cared for him when he lay screaming and crazy in his own filth for
days. After that, he knew that the guards who claimed to be helping him were no
different than Uncle and his men. No matter what kind they were or what they
promised, humans were all the same and there wasn't much that made them
different from demons—what they'd called the owners. Sam wondered when the Dean
man would show his true colors.
Dean slowed the car, finally came to a stop at a little building filled with
humans, and Sam pressed against the seat back, holding himself very still. Was
this another place to fight? The humans running in and out of the little
building were smiling, laughing…that was never good. Either Dean wanted him to
fight or…this was like one of Uncle Luke's parties. He hadn't done that in a
very, very long time, not since he could see easily over the top of Uncle's
head… he had no idea what Dean wanted him to do here. Not knowing scared him
too much, made it hard to hold the fear in. He locked his eyes on the window
and said his ABCs until his breathing went quiet and even again.
Dean's rumbling voice broke in through the drone of …now I know my ABCs, A-B-C-
D-E-A-N, now I know my AB….. "I'm hungry, you hungry? I'm getting some
food—how's burgers sound, with fries, a coke? Good, right?"
Sam had no idea what Dean was talking about but he understood food, hungry. He
nodded slowly and agreed that food sounded good. Dean snapped, "Put your hands
down."
Sam slammed them into his lap and Dean flinched. "I didn't mean it like that—"
and Sam's hands flew back up, his throat tightened with a sort of frustrated
fear. What did the man want? Why wouldn't he just say?
"No, no, I meant, just—" Dean reached out to Sam and Sam turned to stone,
stiffened every muscle to keep from jerking away. Dean cupped Sam's hands in
his and lowered them slowly to Sam's lap. "Like this, I meant. Just…relax,
okay? Shit—I'm an asshole, damn it. Wait a minute."
He took a small knife out of an inside pocket and Sam closed his eyes. He was
not going to beg; he was not going to whine…he just tilted his head back. A
sharp tug on his wrists surprised him, made him look down at his hands. The
ziptie lay in pieces on his lap. Dean rubbed his thumbs over the red creases on
Sam's wrists. They felt warm, firm…almost the same as Iz's hands when they
rubbed the knots out of his muscles. It felt nice. "There," Dean said. "We'll
go through the drive in; it'd probably be better if we eat in the car until
you're, ah, used to, used to…stuff."
Sam nodded because it made Dean relax. He was afraid to tell Dean he still had
no idea what he was talking about. The man drove close along one side of the
building, stopped and spoke out of the window to what, Sam couldn’t see, then
drove on a few feet before slowing to a stop again. He rolled down the car's
window and a person in the building opened their own window to give Dean a big
bag and a tray with cups stuck in it.
Dean drove the car farther into the lot, choosing a spot where there were few
other cars. He left the engine running, noise coming from the radio, and he
settled the tray with the cups between them. A smaller bag of something that
smelled good landed in Sam's lap. It smelled as good as the food laid out when
Uncle had a meeting and Sam had to be there. Spit flooded his mouth instantly
and he swallowed hard—the last few days he hadn't had anything but water at the
prison. Before…before Iz, he kept throwing up the food because all his stomach
wanted was the blood and wouldn't take anything else. And then he'd had to kill
Iz, so they chained him down in his spot, and again—no food. That was okay, it
was right to do; he'd been glad to take the pain for that, even if Iz had
begged him to do it.
Dean sighed, ripped open the bag he'd kept and started to eat, making tiny
little noises that Sam was sure he wasn't aware of making. Happy noises that
made Sam want to smile; he tried not to watch Dean eat, afraid that he would
smile. Sam held the bag of food for Dean and hoped very, very hard that there
would be leftovers. The man—Dean—held his hand out so Sam gave him his bag.
Dean just looked confused.
"No, I wanted the fries; they're in that bag with your burger. And the coke,
one for you, one for me. Everyone likes coke, right?"
Sam's head swam with relief and hope, but when he took a delicate sip from the
cup, it was like having something good dangled in his face and snatched away.
It was just sweet, just coke. He closed his eyes and took slow, little sips—to
make it last, to cover his disappointment. To trick his belly into thinking
that it was more than what it was.
Dean tapped his arm. "Hey, if you don’t like the burgers, we can get something
else. You need to eat, Sam."
Sam swallowed, nudged the bag. this food, it's "…not for me…?"
"Of course it's for you." Dean grabbed the bag, unwrapped a sandwich and pushed
it into Sam's hand. "Eat."
Sam gulped and snatched a bite—two, three bites, and it was gone. The food rode
in a solid lump down his throat, burned in his stomach like coals. He choked
down more coke and opened his mouth wide for the next sandwich in the bag. He
didn't get why but he didn't question either, he imagined Dean must get
something out of forcing him to eat….
"Sam. Sam…I didn't. Didn't mean for you to force yourself. I want you to want
to eat it, to like it."
Dean sounded sad, confused, angry, desperate…Sam stopped chewing and held the
sandwich gingerly. He took a deep breath, let it out, prepared to start again,
but this time he took a small bite and chewed slowly. Tasted it. A wisp of
pleasure twisted through him. The food was very, very good, even better than
the prison food; so much better than the food he'd eaten all his life that it
was like a dream. He held it up to take another careful bite when Dean hissed
and grabbed his wrists. Sam jumped, ready to throw the sandwich down, but Dean
asked, "Those are burns—why did they burn your wrists?"
Sam blinked. Dean had his fingers pressed into the thick, glossy ring of scars
above the bones of his wrists, scars he'd forgotten all about. Remembering who
did that to him produced his version of a smile, a lightning-quick twitch of
his lip. "Training. Too slow. Didn't dodge Tami." Sam blinked again, he'd
surprised himself. He'd spoken like it was nothing, filling the air with his
ugly voice. He risked a glance towards Dean but again, Dean just looked
confused.
"Didn't dodge who?"
"Tamiel," Sam explained. "Her hands were like…touching lightning." Sam shook
his head. "When she took the mitts off, we were careful. A good fighter. The
owners killed her that last day…she…she was nice."
Sam concentrated then on his sandwich, keeping some part of himself trained on
Dean in case he changed his mind about Sam eating or riding inside the car.
Dean just sat there, mouth opened but no words coming. He didn't look angry, so
Sam dared speaking again. "The Owner gave new names to all. Tamiel said her old
name meant flower. Lily…means flower?"
Dean didn't answer Sam's question, he just turned icy eyes on Sam, the mouth
Sam thought looked so soft gone stiff. He asked, "Did everyone get new names?"
and his voice…it reminded Sam of the Owner, it made his gut go weak. Sam nodded
in reply, too nervous to speak; afraid his voice would go even uglier than
normal. Something he'd said was important to his new—his new—owner. Trainer.
Dean. Fear made Sam forget and mix up signs and words. "Not for Iz. No name
before. Zack was Jake, Aniel was Ava. Me—" Sam shrugged. Maybe his name had
been different, maybe not, Uncle never said.
Dean's face was like storm clouds, growing darker and darker; he reached
suddenly for Sam and Sam yelped, struck his head on the window. He tried to
scramble off the seat, dumping food and drink to the floorboards. If he could
just Kneel, everything would be better, he could make Dean not be mad. It was
too small in the space and he was too damn big, his knees grinding the fries,
the meat and the bread into the mat, no place to put his hands. He tried, he
truly did, but every way he turned, Dean was in his way, and it was too much
and it scared him. He didn’t know what to do—so he bit Dean. Hard.
Later that evening, Sam managed to piece together what happened after the bite.
At the time he'd known, as soon as he'd realized that he'd bitten Dean, that
he'd ended himself. It was just a matter of short death or long death, and he
remembered Gabe and the long death. His breath had gone too shallow and too
fast with the memory, until suddenly he'd had no air at all, and everything
went black.
"Panic attack—you passed out." That's how Dean explained it, but Sam wasn't
sure that Dean hadn't been the cause of the blackness. He was human and humans
weren't supposed to be able to do things like that, but…he still wasn't sure
about Dean. When he told Sam what happened, the smooth-water feel of his
thoughts had gone choppy and too hard to read; Sam was losing the ability for
that anyway….
Dean swore he wasn't mad, even though he'd had to clean and bandage the bite.
He'd insisted that they stop, book a room because Sam needed rest. And then
he'd smiled at Sam and fed Sam again. He told Sam that he could sleep in one of
the two beds, and Sam lay down on it. He spread out on the mattress because
Dean was watching, wrong as it felt to sprawl like that on a human bed. He kept
telling Sam that he wasn't mad and Sam nodded, yes, Dean, I know, Dean, I
understand…but he'd had tests like this before and he knew how it went.
When Dean went to sleep, Sam took the towel that Dean had given him, snuck out
of the room. He shut the door quietly and stepped out into the cold night air.
He shivered—it hadn't taken him all that long to get used to being in warm
places. Still, he took a few minutes to look up at the stars—still there. The
moon hung high and bright, the same moon that was shining on Zack and Ana...it
made him feel better and worse at once.
The wolf would never see it again. She'd hated them, spit on Sam when he'd
tried to call her pack, but she was pack whether she wanted to believe it or
not. Sam had cared. He sighed deep from his belly, and scrubbed the back of his
hand against his wet eyes. He twisted the damp towel around his hand and set
himself to cleaning the car as best he could. He scrubbed the floorboards until
they looked clean of food, feeling better when he was done. He could rest. When
he was punished for biting his trainer and for being out by himself, it would
just be for that and not for dirtying the car too. Cleaning he was good at,
Uncle said so—had always made Sam clean up after himself or after the owners.
If he pleased Dean with a good job of cleaning, Dean might be lenient about Sam
running away, especially if it was just to the car and back. Sam crept back in
the room and stood between the beds, unsettled. Dean had said to take the bed
but…Sam sighed. If it was a test, he'd either pass it or fail it, and anyway at
least he'd know what the rules were. He curled up on the bed and marveled at
how soft it was under him, how warm the blanket was. He was asleep in minutes.
And once again, Dean surprised and confused Sam by not being pleased about the
clean car, not at all. Dean was so strange that he hurt Sam's head and made him
say the ABCs in his mind too many times. Dean was what the Owner had once said
Sam was—vexing. If the Owner had had time with Dean, he would have been
very,very vexed. Sam smiled a little to himself, imagining telling Zack that,
and how hard Zack would laugh. A wave of sadness swept over him. The pack was
gone, his old life was over, he needed to forget it and concentrate on
surviving this new life, full of confusing rules and not-rules.
                                      =+=
"I would have called you sooner, Pop, but shit jumped off so fast…I'm coming
home for a few. I've got a huge problem," Dean said, the phone squeezed between
his ear and shoulder as he pumped gas into the Impala's tank. He kept an eye on
Sam, who was sitting inside the car, peering out at the gas station like he was
in Disneyland.
Bobby sounded skeptical, verging on suspicious. "What kinda problem? I heard
the hunt fell out right, so what's going on? This ain't nothing requirin' one
of those kinda doctor's visits, is it? 'Cause I know I taught you better'n
that."
"What? No! I'll tell you when I get home, okay? It's better if we face-to-face
on this. And I'm fine, so don’t worry about that. I'm not an idiot." Bobby
chuckled and Dean swore to himself when the old man went to sleep, he was going
to shave half his beard off. Jerk.
"All right, then. Come on home, boy—and don't stop ta eat, I'm cookin'."
Dean clapped his phone shut, in a much better mood now than he'd started off
in. He went inside and paid for the gas, picked up some M&Ms and, on impulse
and memory, a bag of Swedish Fish for Sam. It was at least entertaining to see
Sam try and make sense of the gummy candy, and the look on his face when he
finally took a tentative nibble…for one unguarded minute, Sam's face looked
like the sun had finally come out.
It was heading towards evening again, the coming winter putting a real chill in
the air, but Bobby was waiting on the porch when they rolled up. He stepped
forward, favoring his hip. Cold fucked him up pretty good, but here he was,
worried and ready for anything Dean needed. It made his chest go tight, and
then loose and warm. He grinned at Bobby, and Bobby gave back the smirk that
meant a lot of things but tonight meant, I missed ya, ya idjit.
Dean knew the minute Bobby caught sight of Sam lurking behind him—he went tight
all over but he kept on walking out to the car, calm and casual, like Dean
brought strays home on the regular. Bobby slung arms around him and squeezed.
They pounded each other's back for a second, Bobby giving him a quick extra
squeeze before stepping back. He looked up…and up and up at Sam. "Well, well,
ain't he a big one. New beau?"
"What? No, damn it! That's…Jesus, Pop, this is going to be impossible to
believe but—he's supposed to be Sam. I mean, he is Sam. I didn't believe it
myself at first, it's weird as fuck but…it's true. I saw proof. This is my
brother."
Bobby shook his head. "That's just not possible, boy. Sam died in that fire…no
way he's…" he stopped, took a step forward. "But. I guess…maybe he does favor
John a bit, I…I'm. Damn. Really?"
There was a load of skeptical in his eyes, and Dean got that. He hardly
expected Bobby to believe it when he was still having a hard time himself.
"Really. He's a really a Winchester. He's family. Sam come back to—to us." Dean
put his hand on Sam and Sam leaned into it, eyes wide and staring at Bobby.
Dean tightened his grip—Sam's expression said relaxed, but he was tense and
quivering under Dean's hand. "Hey, it's okay, Sammy, he's a good guy—the best.
This is my pop, Bobby Singer. You can say hello, if you want. Swear, his bark
is worse'n his bite."
Sam startled him by doing an odd, bobbing sort of curtsey, so quickly Dean
almost wasn't sure he'd seen it, and then the kid froze like a block of ice.
Dean took one of his huge hands and pulled a bit. "Hey, Come on, Sam. Let's go
get settled, okay? Take a load off, right?" Sam jerked against his grip and
then did settle, his shoulders slumping a bit and his eyes firmly on the
ground.
"Sounds good…come on in, you…you two." Bobby stepped back and waved Dean and
Sam towards the porch, and Dean had to tug Sam a little to get him going. Sam
kept his eyes on the ground, stumbling behind Dean and flinching like he'd get
kicked if Bobby got too close. Dean decided to take Sam straight to the
bedroom, the old one that he'd shared with Sam what felt like a million,
million years ago. He was startled by his eyes going hot and wet for a moment.
Bobby rubbed Dean's back, then nudged him towards the stairs. "Hey, go drop
your shit. We talk about this later, all right?"
                                      =+=
Dean opened the door and sighed. It'd been a while since he'd been in this
room, slept in it. The same old posters his teenaged-self had hung were still
on the walls; a confusing mix of tanned swimsuit models, Olympic swimmers, and
singers of indeterminate gender with too much eyeliner. How had it taken Bobby,
able to puzzle out any monster mystery, so long to twig to the fact that Dean
was bi? Dean laughed softly and felt Sam jerk in his grip. Sam, Jesus, right.
"Okay, so usually guests stay down the hall, but you and I aren't guests,
right? I mean—I think—well, we should stay close, y'know? Get to know each
other…?"
Sam nodded, but he had that blank look in his eyes that told Dean he really
didn't get what Dean was saying—the same look that had been on his face most of
the way to Bobby's. Poor shit. Must feel like tap-dancing in a minefield, Dean
thought. "Gimme the bags," he said, and stowed them in the bottom shelf of a
bookcase that had been his since his first day moving in with Bobby. Pictures
of his dad, his pop…school trophies on the top shelf and all his diplomas on
the middle shelf—middle school, high school, college, Hunter certificate—and
everything sharing space with books. Sam gawked at the shelves; the books
seemed to draw him. "Go ahead, look. Touch if you want to."
Sam drew in on himself when Dean said that, shoulders rounding so that he
looked smaller. He didn't reach out to the shelf, just stared at the books.
Dean went to the bed, taking extra pillows from a cedar chest against the
opposite wall. "Sam, you go ahead and lie down for a bit, I gotta talk to Pop."
Sam went quickly to the bed, kind of crouched uncomfortably on it the same way
he had at the motel, looking like he was about to fling himself off of it at
any moment. Dean sighed. That was probably the best he could expect until he
could convince Sam that he really was safe now, and his life had taken a major,
permanent change for the better. "Just…stay here, okay? I'll be back."
Sam nodded jerkily and froze again. Dean looked back when he shut the door.
"Jesus." Sam looked like he was waiting for the ax to fall, literally.
                                      =+=
Bobby had shots and beers set up on the table. He was dragging a spoon around
in a huge pot on the stove, big enough to wash a baby in. Like he'd been
waiting for a whole squad of hunters besides him and Sam. He grinned at the old
man. Just like Caleb—worse than a mother hen. He tried to grab the spoon from
Bobby, fending off slaps and curses. "C'mon, I just want a little taste!"
"Sit yer ass down. Ya can wait 'til dinner-time an' eat outta a bowl, like
regular folks." They drank to fallen hunters and as always, to John, and then
Bobby slammed his bottle down. "Talk, boy.'
"Not that much to tell, Pop." Dean told him all he knew, all he'd seen and
Bobby looked like he'd been pulled through a wringer ass-backwards when Dean
finally fell silent.
"Fu-uck."
"Yep."
Bobby got up and stirred the pot, turned off the heat. Pulled a pan of
cornbread out of the oven and Dean's eyebrows rose. Home-made cornbread, chili…
Bobby must have missed him. Dean felt some guilt at how long it'd been since he
was home last. "Grab some bowls, princess, set the table," Bobby said. "SMAC
might think you're some kinda big deal, but I don't." He threw a checkered
cloth across the old farm table and plopped the pot of chili, a pot of rice and
the pan of cornbread down as Dean set the table. It felt so normal that for a
brief—very brief—moment Dean forgot about the giant in his bedroom.
Bobby ladled out chili and said, like they'd never stopped talking about Sam,
"So, the feds said 'we wash our hands of this shit' and now it's up to you to
turn this fucked up kid back into a human being."
"He's human! He's just been…."
"Fucked up. Dean. This ain't gonna be a walk in the park, not for you, not for
him. You know there are places and people who can help that kid—"
"Sam, god damn it, his name is Sam and besides you, he's the only family I got.
I fucking lost him, it's my fault. Pop, this is my chance to make up for that."
Dean stopped to take a breath and Bobby walked away. He came back from the tiny
pantry closet with another couple of beers. He set them at his and Dean's place
at the table. Pushed back the bill of his ball cap to rub at his forehead.
"Son, it ain't your fault, what happened. But you're about one stubborn little
shit when you set your mind to somethin' so…you do what you gotta do. You know
I'm here if you need me. You and…and Sam."
"Thanks, Pop. I know that, I know I can count on you." Dean dragged a shaking
hand through his hair, twisting up the short spikes before huffing out a tense
breath. "I'm gonna go get him for dinner, be right back."
                                      =+=
Sam was still huddled on the bed, looked like he hadn't moved an inch since
Dean left. He flicked his eyes towards Dean when he came in. "Come on, Sam,
let's get some dinner."
Sam untwisted his death grip from the edge of the blanket. His eyes widened in
amazement and Dean was rocked again with one of those…memory flashbacks.
Graygreengold lights flickered in his brain and he barely heard Sam's breathy,
"More food?'
He laughed. "Yeah. We like to eat. A lot."
He grinned at Sam and waited while Sam seemed to think about that. He nodded
seriously and said, "That's good."
"Unh, yeah, it is. So come on, we'll get dinner and I'll give you the formal
introduction to Bobby Singer, hunter, father, raconteur. Seriously, he's a good
guy, you'll like him."
                                      =+=
Sam eased into the kitchen, struck for moment how warm and filled with good
smells it was. A light hanging over a big table lit plates and cups, and a huge
pot of something wafting a scent that made his jaws ache and his mouth fill
with water. He'd just eaten, not more than a few hours ago and yet, his stomach
screamed as if it had been days. The man with the beard was sitting all ready,
a big bowl in front of him. Sam recognized rice, he liked it, it was always a
nice change from beans. Spread over the rice was chunks of meat, red and
thick—its smell tickled Sam's nose. The man with the beard lifted a big chunk
of something that was yellow and crumbled and took a bite. It smelled sweet and
Sam hoped he'd get some of it. Dean said, "Sam Winchester, meet Bobby Singer."
Bobby Singer nodded, said, "Pleased to meet you, Sam Winchester, sit'cher self
down," around a mouthful of food.
Sam had no idea why Dean and Bobby Singer named Sam with part of Dean's name.
If he was right and Dean was a trainer, it kind of made sense—maybe that's how
they showed ownership here. He hoped they didn't do the tattoos as well, that
was something he'd never liked…"Go on, Sam, do as Pop says," and Sam
immediately sat where Dean pointed. He had his own bowl and "cornbread—Pop's
kinda average at making that," Dean said, but there was a light, teasing note
to his voice that made the back of Sam's brain itch. He wanted to take a moment
to find out why but the food—the cornbread—he took it up and nipped a neat
bite. Sweet and salt and warm burst on his tongue. He moaned at the unexpected
flavor.
"Right?" Dean grinned wider and started to sit. "Oh, wait." He went to the
refrigerator and brought back a pitcher. Filled Sam's glass with milk and Sam
smiled inside. Milk was something he'd learned to like in prison. He liked it
ice-cold, liked the way it coated the inside of his mouth with smooth and cold.
Then he took a bite of what Bobby called chili and his mouth exploded.
"Oh—oh—" Sam's eyes filled, his nose and mouth stung—he chewed frantically and
swallowed. When he could, he peered around the table and froze at the identical
looks on Bobby and Dean's faces. It felt like a hook twisted in his
chest…tests, always tests….
Bobby laughed. "Took you by surprise, looks like. You ain't had this before?"
when Sam shook his head no, Bobby laughed again, and the twist in Sam's chest
ratcheted a notch tighter. And then Bobby leaned forward and whispered, much
too loudly for Dean not to hear, "Dean liked ta have cried first time he had my
chili—snot and tears, I'm telling ya."
"Did not!" Dean yelped. "Don’t listen to him Sam, that man's a damn
pathological liar."
Bobby laughed again, and Sam started to get that this wasn't a test or a kind
of joke. It was more like…pack stuff. When they were free and had moments to be
together, and getting together to cry wasted time but getting together to laugh
was good. Sam took another bite of the chili, which now that his tongue knew
what was coming, was really very good, and chased it with cold milk. He decided
that this food was better than the little building food which was better than
the prison food… "Hunh."
Bobby lifted an eyebrow at him and Sam explained, "This is good." And, for the
first time in his life, he said thank you and meant it. Things were changing in
ways he had nothing to compare to. He had a lot of thinking to do.
2
The next few days passed slowly and Sam was proven right; there was a lot of
thinking to be done, about everything. There was Dean's weird insistence that
they were brothers. Day after day, Dean told him that they were family. That
they were brothers and shared a father, that Bobby was Dean's father of spirit
but their flesh and blood father, the one they shared, had passed on. It went
on and on, and Sam got more and more angry. He fought it, tried to wrestle his
anger and frustration down like he'd always done but Dean had a way of getting
under his skin. Dean seemed to trip switches just by breathing, just by walking
and smiling that stupid smile of his, always smiling, always there—"Stop!"
"What?"
They'd been walking in the metal desert that Bobby called 'the yard', Dean
spinning some incomprehensible tale about fishing for invisible fish with
hairpins and balls of bread and Dean's little brother Sammy crying because he
wasn't getting fish and Sam just—couldn't take one more minute of hearing about
this wonderful, amazing, perfect little shit. "Just—stop, please. I can't—I'm
not. Not him."
"You are—you're Sam, you're my little brother." Dean grabbed his biceps,
gripped Sam harder than he thought Dean was able to. Dean gave him a shake.
"You're my brother. You don’t remember now, but you will, I know you will."
"No, and I do remember. Why I was the Owner's. I kill things, I like killing
things." He smiled at Dean. "I'm good at it, I'm the best."
"No." Dean took a step back. "No, damn it, it was something forced on you—you
didn't have a choice about that, Sam."
Sam tilted his head at Dean; saw that Dean really believed that. He just smiled
wider, and Dean frowned. "I did. I was born to it—"
"Sam!"
"Killed my family. My brother, my father—I killed them, burned them in their
house. I remember…. "
Dean was shaking his head, his eyes wide and white surrounding the lake-green
of his eyes. He was moving his mouth, not true, not true, but the sound didn't
come. Sam went on, "Don't know why. I think…I liked my brother. He taught me
ABCs. But I killed him." Sam shrugged, careless. "I guess he made me mad—"
Dean made a terrible noise and stormed off to the house. Sam watched him go
away. He didn't know how to make him stop, or if he should, so he picked a
direction away from the house and started walking. He wandered further into the
broken cars, squeezing between the rusty heaps, just wanting to be—away. He
wanted to be gone.
He rounded a corner and two big brown and black dogs shrugged out from under a
truck, baring big teeth in wrinkled faces. Sam stopped, surprised by their
sudden appearance, but not for long. A familiar hot streak slithered through
him, forcing out a smile that was all teeth. He shook himself all over,
loosening muscles and getting ready. Sam had fought dogs, he'd fought black
dogs and shifter dogs, he'd even helped Zack fight a hellhound once, so he
wasn't afraid. Just curious. What did it mean that dogs were here? Was it
practice, were they going to fight him soon? Sam growled behind his teeth. He
didn’t know anything anymore and it made him crazy, always exhausted, on edge
and constantly waiting for an owner to pop the joke. Dean acted crazy, not like
a trainer, not like an owner except in the ways he did plus he wanted Sam to
believe he was family and, and—
Sam crouched and screamed at the dogs. One turned tail and ran but the other
attacked, and Sam felt a vicious wave of pure happiness and rage. They
collided, Sam doing his best to keep the dog from setting its teeth in—he
shoved his fist into the dog's open mouth and kept shoving in, ignoring the way
its teeth scored him. The dog's claws raked him, tearing through his t-shirt
and leaving bleeding streaks down Sam's sides as it tried to break free and
breathe. Sam used his weight against it, bearing the dog to the ground while
twisting his free arm around its neck. Sam's arm ran with blood and his fist
was on fire—it was hurt, but he knew from experience he wasn't badly injured,
so he ignored the pain the way he'd been taught to.
With one last hard jerk, he snapped the dog's neck. He heard the bones snap,
grind as he twisted the head towards him and the dog went still. Sam wanted to
feel triumphant. He waited for that good, warm feeling to flood him, for his
skin burn in a good way, just as it had before. Waited for the hot throb to
build between his legs, the way it'd press at him, the feeling when he had the
right to take whoever had lost to him. Because he was top and it was always
good…it was good. The Owner said so.
Sam dropped the dog and crawled away from it. He didn't feel any of that. He
felt cold and sick. His gut ached and he gagged up everything in his stomach.
He rolled to his feet and staggered away from the puddle of vomit, tried to
wipe his mouth and only smeared blood over his face. There was a dead dog on
the ground and his blood, blood everywhere, and his trainer was crazy and
thought Sam was his dead brother and Sam had no one…Sam dropped to his knees
and howled until Dean found him and dragged him back in the house.
                                      =+=
Sam crouched on the floor between the beds and tried not to whine with how his
hand throbbed. Dean had cleaned him up, and put in a couple of stitches, two or
three. Told him in a cold, flat voice that he'd done wrong. Killing the dog was
a terrible, terrible wrong. Sam knew that now. The way Bobby had shouted and
yelled at Dean, and looked at Sam like…like the guards at the prison had looked
at him. Like if he had a stick, he'd put it in Sam's eye. The look Dean gave
him, the way his face went the color of milk, the ice in his eyes when he'd
seen the dead dog and then Sam covered with blood…Sam took in a shuddery breath
and tried to fold himself smaller. He was afraid for himself, and it was hard
to keep it all in, but Sam bit his lips, kept to his knees and waited.
When Dean finally came into the room, there was dirt on his hands and clothes.
He told Sam to get his ass in the bathroom, and finally having an order to
follow was almost a relief. He ran to the bathroom, stripped and knelt on the
cold tiled floor with his ass in the air. He hoped that the water wouldn't be
freezing. Sam rested his head on crossed arms and resigned himself to whatever
came next. His breath drew in and flowed out shakily. Despite the fear, he
could barely keep his eyes open, was nearly ready to fall into sleep. He was
too tired to keep good stillness; when he shifted, his cheek pulled free of the
blood on his arms. That little sting brought him awake and filled him with
shame again.
"Why aren't you in the shower—Sam?" The door opened and he heard a sharp gasp
and something thump on the floor. Sam jumped himself and quickly tightened his
position. He heard the door slam and the lock click. Heard things tumble about
and then Dean was there; face bright red and his eyes not meeting Sam's. He
took Sam's arm carefully, avoiding the torn parts, and pulled him to his feet.
He turned the knobs in the bathtub and water rushed out of the shower head, but
instead of throwing Sam right in, Dean waited until the water was warm before
pushing Sam's hands in and asking if it was okay. Sam shuddered with the feel
of it, warm as the showers he'd had in the prison, comforting as the lake that
summer. He nodded and Dean nudged him under the flow. Handing him soap and a
washrag, Dean said, "Go on and clean up, Sam."
Sam's breath hitched around the sharp tangle in his chest; the cough meant to
ease it became a hot burst of tears. Dean babbled something senseless and
rushed out of the room. Sam cried and ran the soap all over himself, through
his blood-tangled hair and under his arms and down his stinging sides and over
his torn hands. He was confused and sad, and so tired, and he just didn't
understand. Sam fell against the wall, pressed his head against the tiles. He
shoved both hands over his mouth, trying to stuff the sobs back down his
throat; he needed to stop, before…he whirled around at the sound of the door
opening. Dean tapped at the shower curtain. "Uhm…Hey. Come out when you're
ready. But you know, take your time if you need it."
Dean sounded a little uncertain but Sam took it as an order anyway. He shut off
the water and slid out of the shower to stand dripping on the mat. Dean held
out a huge towel, wearing an odd expression on his face.
"Did your hair too?" Dean asked and Sam nodded. "And behind your ears?" and
gave Sam a smile that seemed a bit twisted out of shape, but his eyes were so
kind. Sam blinked hard, swallowed against the hot knot in his throat, nodded
again and Dean said, "Well, come here," and wrapped as much of Sam as he could
in the towel. It felt like—like—full stomachs and packmates wrapped around each
other. Like hiding in the straw with all his treasures around him. His breath
hitched again and he began to worry…was he going crazy again, like in the
prison? Was there something about Dean and Bobby Singer that twisted his brain?
"This used to be different when you were small," Dean murmured, his mouth right
next to Sam's ear. His tone was soft, the touch of the towel gentle. "Less Sam,
more towel. Sam…I'm sorry. I don't know what's wrong or right here. I guess I
let you try and search it out on your own, so that's on me. And what you did
today…you don’t do that anymore, okay? No one is asking you to fight. We don’t
want you to fight; you're not here for that."
At last, Sam thought. This was something he understood. He dropped to his knees
and put his hands on Dean like he'd been taught and Dean almost crashed into
the tub. His face was so… mixed with outrage and shock that Sam couldn’t stop
himself from reaching out to him, and the barest sketch of a laugh creaked out
of him. Sam froze, he was so stupid, seconds from fixing things and now he'd
thrown his chance away again. Dean had certainly heard him laugh—and then Dean
shocked him by smiling, blushing. "So, sometimes I'm not very smooth, you might
have noticed…" Dean stopped and sighed, the smile disappearing all too soon.
"You're not here for that either, Sam. Especially that." Dean sounded calm,
kind…and so tired. Sam studied Dean's face, the way the heat was slowly dying
in his eyes, and wondered why Dean lied about not wanting that, but Sam nodded
like he believed it. Trying to understand why people did what they did had
always been like running in mud to Sam. Dean made him feel that way even more
than most.
                                      =+=
The thing was, nothing changed afterward. He wasn't made to fight the dogs,
just like Dean said. He didn't get punished for killing the one dog. Bobby
didn't say anything about it either, he only made Sam bring them their food and
water. Their own food, like Sam had his own food so he didn't need to share or
steal from the dogs. He slept in his own bed, a real bed with sheets and
blankets. He helped Dean and Bobby to clean instead of doing it all himself,
and learned that when Bobby complained about how he did it, it was supposed to
be a pack joke. Nights, they invited him to watch the thing, the T.V. with
them, but Sam thought it was pointless and stupid and he didn't understand it.
They let him go to his spot—room—if he wanted; they let him go unsupervised,
unchained, night after night. Warm showers, clean clothes, soft socks, and so
much food…
Sam kept thinking about his new life, now he had so much time, and so few
rules. He wandered freely around Bobby's place and thought about this new pack,
wondering where he fit. Couldn't tell how Bobby ranked by the way he acted. He
was…hard to read, sometimes deferring to Dean and to Sam, and sometimes
definitely acting like the top. But Dean never really deferred even if it
sounded like it, he was very much in control. Dean was young and fit, muscled
and strong. But Bobby was old and that meant he'd outlasted a lot of rivals.
Sam could only assume that Bobby ranked over him and they both ranked below
Dean…so much to think on. And after a while, he realized that Dean wasn't
making up situations where Sam had to fail and then be punished—he was forgiven
for mistakes, over and over again. Dean wasn't trying to test him. He was not
ever going to test him. Sam took that in, digested it and came to the only
logical conclusion.
Dean was weak.
Dean must be bottom rank, and that meant he was practically bait. Sam was
justified in topping him. He'd figure out Bobby later, after Sam was top in
this place.
Sam was sitting on the steps of the kitchen porch, enjoying the breeze and
planning his next move, when Dean gave it to him. Dean came out on the porch, a
small box in his hands. He was just about to set it on the step next to Sam,
saying, "This is all we have le—"
Sam knocked him down, and Dean went skittering across the porch, the box
showering its contents down the steps. Sam ignored the papers, intent on
getting Dean down and keeping him down. Dean was smaller, strong but still
weaker than Sam, even though Sam was at the weakest he'd been since he could
walk under a table—Sam would have to be careful not to kill him, if possible.
They went flying off the stairs into the gravel, and Sam smiled. He was good on
uneven surfaces and he already had a feel for Dean's moves.
They struggled across the yard until Sam set his feet and got a punch in,
knocking his elbow into Dean's throat. Dean went loose, long enough for Sam to
get a real advantage. He set his teeth in where he landed a bite and ground
down until his mouth filled with blood—then realized his mistake. He'd caught
Dean in the shoulder and Dean was breathing freely again. He growled and tried
to resink his teeth higher into Dean's neck—but before he got a grip, Sam felt
a bright shower of pain blow up in his face, his mouth and chin slippery with
the hot blood running from his nose. He yowled and punched hard through the
pain, heard Dean yell, and there was an answering pain in Sam's ribs and his
thigh. Before Sam could use his weight to pin Dean, he was face down in the
grass, a knee in his neck and his arm twisted so high up his back he thought it
was going to pop out of the socket. A buzz at the edge of his mind grew louder,
became Dean shouting at him.
"—the matter with you?"
Blood pattered to the ground, dripping from his nose and mouth. Sam was weak.
The loss of the Owner's blood had made him no better than bait himself. He was
done, useless, and stupid enough to attack Dean, who was the real top after
all. Sam sucked in a huge gulp of air and waited for Dean to finish it. When
Dean moved his knee, shifted his grip from Sam's arm to the back of his neck
and his other hand to the waistband of his pants, Sam instantly spread his legs
and tried to relax tight muscle. It hurt less that way.
What happened next didn't make sense.
Dean flipped Sam to his back, his hands going to Sam's shoulders. Dean looked
wild; his eyes were huge, rimmed with blood from a cut on his forehead. Blood
dripped too from a gash in his lower lip. Sam's eyes flitted over him and he
felt a small relief that despite the blood, Dean was in good shape. Less
punishment—unless Dean was angry at how sloppy the attack was and—
Dean bounced Sam's head off the ground, hard enough to make his sight swim.
"—fucking shit, I should beat the hell out of you. Ungrateful dick."
Sam stared, mouth open on a shuddering breath. He could smell Dean, wanted to
taste him in his mouth, Dean would taste good…Sam licked his lips, wanting
more. Dean's eyes went from Sam's lips to Sam's eyes and his heart beat
faster—Sam felt it against his own chest. His skin twitched and his belly
ached. Dean was strong. Maybe stronger than him. Smarter than him. Sam spread
his legs wider and rolled his hips, subtle, slow, and waited.
Dean's eyes turned a deeper green, the pupils shifted, more black than green
now, his eyes…Sam felt that heavy weight between his legs, groaned when Dean
moved and put pressure where he wanted it most. The air felt too thick in his
lungs as he rolled his hips and breathed out. Dean made a low noise and rocked
against Sam, and now his prick was hot and heavy and rubbing against the inside
of too-tight pants. Sam closed his eyes, wanted to take the pants off—tilted
his head back to let his pack leader know he was ready for him.
"Shit!" Dean jerked away from him, cold air rushing in to chase away the heat,
and Sam whimpered a bit—he'd liked that warmth, the feel of Dean hot and hard
against his prick. But Dean backed away like he'd seen something bad. He held a
hand out, as though to stop Sam, then lifted both hands to wipe the blood off
his mouth, ran them over his head. They were shaking and left thin red stripes
on his face. Sam found it hard to look away….
Dean stumbled to his feet, his eyes darting between Sam on his back, legs wide,
and the scattered papers on the porch stairs. Some of them were splashed with
blood, some of them wrinkled or torn. "God damn it, damn it…" Dean muttered.
His hands brushed his crotch and he made a face like he'd slipped on guts. He
stared at the small papers like they were part of him, then turned a look on
Sam like Sam had mauled that part and Sam knew that he'd failed the biggest
test of his life. Dean went back inside fast, like a hellhound was on him,
leaving Sam still on his back, untouched.
Sam rolled upright and crouched over the papers, gathered them up. They were
pictures, some little boys, a man, a woman. He wiped the blood off as best he
could and tried to work the wrinkles out. He was setting them on the kitchen
table just as Bobby Singer came running into the room. Sam immediately crouched
near the table, and Bobby looked at him like he was the worst kind of bad dog.
"Oh, Sam," he said and Sam dropped his head.
Now he knew how low his place was—too low to beat, too low to fuck. He had
nothing to say, no way to explain how badly he'd failed. He chanced a look at
Bobby, and saw that Bobby knew just what Sam had done. "Sorry," Sam gasped, a
small word that meant nothing compared to the depth of Sam's failure.
"Yeah, I can see that, you poor shit. Let's get this mess cleaned up. I'll talk
to Dean."
Sam nodded, sure that Bobby meant they would decide how to punish him. He
deferred to Bobby and followed his instruction as best he could. Watched Bobby
take the box of pictures to Dean. What happened next would be the pack leader's
choice.
                                      =+=
Dean sat on the bed, the box of photos in his hand. He had no idea what'd
happened earlier. Why the fuck would Sam just…attack him out of the blue? And
then, fuck, offer himself up like that? No mistake—he'd been ready to be
fucked—raped. Dean shuddered all over, his eyes stung. This was what they'd
made of Sam by losing him, him and Dad. When they'd assumed Sam had died in
that fire…maybe he should have. Because what Sammy lived through must have been
worse than dying. He thumbed through the few pictures: Dad, Mom, the house, a
couple of pictures of him and Sam, and one picture of Sam that had always been
his favorite. Little, three year old Sam peering out from behind Dad's leg,
glowering at the camera. Dean smiled, it trembled away into a frown; a drop of
blood obscured most of Sam's face. Dean dropped the photo back into the box and
sighed. What was he going to do with Sam? How was he going to help him—protect
Sam, from—shit. Everything.
Dean ground a fist between his eyebrows and tried to force the twisted mess his
thoughts into some kind of sense.
And speaking of Sam, there he was at the door. It was odd, how Dean could so
easily see young Sam in his face now, in his eyes. His forehead wrinkled, and
Dean recalled in a rush how fear or worry would make that little curl right
between Sam's eyes. The stinging in Dean's eyes intensified, he dug his fingers
into his eyes and counted down to calm himself. "Come on in, Sam."
Sam sidled into the room, keeping his back to the wall.
"C'mon, you can come closer." Sam limped closer, closer until he was almost
knee to knee with Dean and then dropped into a kneel. It was kind of amazing,
how graceful the kid folded. All that long, lanky height flowing to rest in
front of him…Dean swallowed. Actually, it was kind of hot….
Sam waited, his head bowed. Silent. Dean had the feeling that Sam would wait
there forever if need be. The thought kicked his heart into overdrive, and
added fuel to the flames of his guilt…not just his guilt, if he was being
honest with himself. He squashed the thought as quickly as he could and
concentrated on Sam, waiting... "Hey. Look at me." Dean's voice creaked, his
throat gone dry as cotton. Sam's eyes flicked towards his. Dean flicked the
hair out of Sam's eyes…so long now. He slid fingers under Sam's chin, lifted.
"Hey. Look at me. Why did you do that?"
"Mistake," he muttered. Dean could feel Sam's Adam's apple jerk when he
swallowed. "Went out of my place." He fell silent and looking into his eyes,
Dean didn't see challenge, he saw terror. Sam probably expected the worst. Dean
dropped his hand and Sam's head bowed to his chest. God damn, that thing he'd
done, what the fuck kind of meaning did it have for Sam? Hell, was he trying to
live by some kind of damn wolf pack politics in Bobby's house? Fuck Vic and his
"family's better than institutions" bullshit. What the fuck did Vic know—what
the fuck did he know? He couldn't figure out half the time what was going on in
Sam's head. Who was going to help him untangle this shit, Bobby? Bobby was sure
Dean was nuts.
All he could do was take a shot—he figured he couldn't fuck it up worse than he
already had. "Okay..." Dean took a sharp breath. "Remember how I told you, you
wouldn't be going in a ring ever again? Well, this is another thing like
that—something you will never do again. Because if you do try anything like
that again, to me or—or to Bobby, if you even look at him sideways, I will
knock your sorry ass into next week, you get me?"
Sam looked somewhat relieved. "Yes, I get you." He could feel Sam relaxing
under his hold and that made Dean feel…a little ill. How he was going to
convince Sam they were brothers when it seemed like Sam had decided that Dean
was the fucking…alpha, top-dog, leader-of-the-pack? And if Sam did see Dean
as…what, his alpha? Then, hell, it might be easier if Sam wasn't his brother.
"Sam…" Dean dug his fist between his eyebrows again and wished he could just
grind all the stupid thoughts out of his head. Of course he didn't really wish
Sam wasn't his brother—of course not. His stomach rolled with a sick feeling of
guilt. He didn't mean it that way. And he kept telling himself that he didn't
mean it but Sam. Sam was…he was like the key to a door inside him that Dean
hadn't even known was there, a locked and bolted door that let freedom loose
when Sam opened it just by being Sam.
He wondered how he hadn't known, when he'd first seen Sam, that they were
connected. Now that he had him, he couldn't imagine life without Sam. In the
past, Sam being stolen had left a huge, gaping, bloody hole in their lives.
Nothing had ever counted except getting Sammy back. Dad died for it and Dean
had lived his whole life around making up for it. Now he had Sammy—but he
didn't. What he had was this man, this huge, beautiful…this…person. Sam but not
Sam….
Dean ran his fingers through Sam's hair, over and over until Sam sighed and
laid his head on Dean's knees. Sam was happy. He was forgiven. Maybe that was
all Sam needed to know, Dean thought, all he cared about. Dean was the one with
a problem. It wasn't enough to have Sam back, he wanted to know everything
about him, learn all there was to know. He wanted teach Sam. He wanted to touch
him, and to be touched back. Not sexual, no. Not…Dean sighed. Fuck, inside his
own head, he might as well be honest and admit it was, at least a little bit.
He needed to have Sam, keep him. Help him. And not forget that Sam could be
dangerous. Or, maybe not dangerous exactly, Dean corrected himself. He was
unpredictable. Volatile. It was up to Dean to direct it, channel it in good
ways now. He could do it. He was pretty sure.
                                      =+=
Sam didn't mind too much that he was bottom rank. He'd have to start from the
beginning, he'd done it before. It was hard—Dean seldom gave him clues.
Sometimes Sam got so angry that he broke; he'd challenge Dean from time to
time, but carefully, not with teeth or fists.
Dean kept telling him that they were brothers but that was stupid. Sam's
brother was dead, but it seemed so important to Dean that Sam believe it
too…Sam shrugged. He knew what it was he wanted from Dean. The way Dean
smelled, the way he looked at Sam sometimes. His eyes, his mouth, when he
smiled. So pretty— it made Sam want to smile too. It made Sam want to touch.
When Dean moved, his muscles flowed smooth like deep water. That was Dean to
him, deep water. He wanted to sink in it. He wanted to drink it and drown in
it…brothers. Sam tilted his head and watched Dean flow around the wreck of a
car, doing something Bobby said was important. He followed Dean's movement with
his eyes. His hands twitched with wanting to touch him…or knock him down. He
was never really sure when it came to Dean—fight and fuck twisted up together
in his mind when it was Dean.
Sam's skin twitched and jumped with too much energy. He needed to burn off this
excess, this want. Pun, the dog that had run away the day he'd killed the other
one, came slinking around the corner of the house and Sam bared his teeth. He
could kill this dog easily. But Dean would be mad. He huffed. That was the
problem—Dean would be mad about everything Sam wanted to do. Sometimes Sam
thought Dean made these problems in his head on purpose. Dean made his head
ache. He should…he should….
Sam jumped off the porch steps and went racing out towards the isolated back of
the yard. He ran until his heart hammered at his ribs, and then leaped up on a
flattened stack of cars, laughed when the stack shifted slightly under his
feet. He jumped from one pile to the other, raced up and down the gravel
pathways between the wrecks and finally dropped in an exhausted lump. He
wriggled himself under a car sitting on slowly rotting tires and finally let
the exhaustion pull him under into sleep; the last thing he saw before he went
under was Pun, his snout shoved under the car and curious brown eyes peering at
him.
                                      =+=
The air conditioner chugged away and the fan in it rattled slightly, but that
wasn't why Sam woke up. The sound in the room was wrong. He'd quickly gotten
used to hearing Dean's steady breathing coming from the other bed. He stepped
out of his bed and into a squashy lump that turned out to be Dean's jeans and
socks from the day. He made a face and sucked his teeth in annoyance. Dean just
dropping his things where ever he wanted to, that Sam couldn’t get used to as
easily. Dean was…he should take better care of his things. Someone could take
them away. Besides, it made the spot messy and that was wrong, your spot should
never be messy. Sam huffed impatiently, gathered Dean's things off the floor
and put them where they belonged and then went in search of Dean.
He eased out of the room and down the narrow hallway, listening for sounds. He
crept down the stairs, padded into the kitchen. Dean was sitting at the table
alone. He had a glass in his hand, and a bottle half-full of that bad-smelling
stuff in front of him. His mouth curved slightly with a little smile.
He looked up as Sam came in, like he'd known Sam was standing there all along.
"Hey, Sammy…I was just thinking about you."
Sam stood still, uncertain if he should stay or go, but Dean waved him over.
"Come in. Sit down."
Sam wanted to balk at the order he felt in the words despite the smile on
Dean's face, but quickly walked across the kitchen and sat in a chair facing
Dean.
"So, I was thinking…all the thoughts I couldn’t before," Dean said and laughed.
"Wouldn't let myself before and now it's okay. You were…" he shook his head and
took a drink. "My brother. You are my brother. I missed you all those years,
y'know, never stopped missing you."
Sam didn't like that he was making Dean hurt and had no way to fix it. In that
moment, he wished so much that he really was Dean's brother, not a freak, a
monster only good for killing things. His eyes stung looking at Dean, who
looked so happy to be sitting at the table with a freak. At least he could
pretend to understand. He dredged up a smile to give Dean.
"You were so…obnoxious," Dean said, chuckling. Sam let the sound roll over him
like a warm wave. It was a nice thing. He wished Dean would do it more; he
could listen to it for days.
"Yup. That was you, Sam. Stubborn and cranky. Like a little mule. Kicked like
one too. Wouldn't listen to Dad, would barely listen to me. You never had
terrible twos because you were a terrible little shit from the get," Dean
laughed. Sam felt a ghost of annoyance. If his brother had been so bad, why did
Dean miss him so much?
Dean laughed again. He reached across the table and pressed his thumb between
Sam's eyebrows, "…there, that thing with your eyes, and jaw…still there." Dean
tilted his head, a tear rolled down his cheek. "I heard you calling me for
years. Sometimes I'd be on a job; fuckin' nodding off from being so fuckin'
tired…I'd hear you call me. 'Dean', and I'd wake right up…you were a little
shit for sure, but you loved me. Yeah, you did. Wanted to do everything I did.
When I started school, boy, you screamed your head off; I was going somewhere
you couldn’t go. Had to promise you we'd have our own classes, just you and
me."
Sam felt a jolt in his middle like Tami brushing him. Dean sipped at the nasty
liquid and went on, unaware of Sam's shock. "You were starting to get good with
your ABCs before they…before that happened."
Sam gasped. "Yes, ABCs. I know ABCs."
Dean sat back in his chair and gazed at Sam, a puzzled look crinkling the
corners of his eyes. "You what?"
"I know how to ABC," Sam said, nodding his head emphatically. "A-B-C-D-E-A-N.
No one knows I can do that. I saved it. For me." He felt very proud until he
caught the look on Dean's face. "What? Did I…I said them wrong?" Horrible
dismay swept him. He cringed when Dean jumped up, his glass tipping and the
smell of the nasty stuff burning Sam's nose.
"Say them again!"
Sam stammered out, "A-B-C-D-E-A-N—"
Dean scrambled out of his chair and dropped down next to Sam, grabbed his face.
His grip was edging on painful but Sam was afraid to pull away. Dean's eyes
were like green fire, he shook Sam, and said, "D, E, A, N…spells Dean. That's
me—you spelled my name. Sam, you spelled my name. I told you—brothers—how would
you know that if we weren't—"
Sam looked down on Dean. "But…I don’t have a brother. Anyone. I…they're all
dead."
"Sam, damn it—you didn’t do that. Demons did that—stealing kids, stealing them
to raise as, fuck—I don't know, some kind of army, who knows? Demons stole you,
Azazel burned the house down, like Azazel burned up our mother but you—you
didn't. You’re not a killer, you're a victim."
Sam stared down at Dean, and tried to match his words to what he knew of the
world. It…it just didn't match. He didn't see where the edges fit together,
where he went from killer to prey. But…it would be good. It would be good not
to have killed his family. Made him less of a monster. He stared at Dean and
wondered, if he said that he really believed they were brothers, would Dean be
more inclined to fuck? He smiled down at Dean and heaved a pleased sigh when
Dean suddenly hugged him. He rested his chin on Dean's shoulder and sniffed in
his good smell, concentrated hard so he could feel a whisper of that smooth,
cool, deep water flow over his mind. Dean was so good.
                                      =+=
Sam tried to stifle an irritated sigh. Dean had been going on about this
'hunting' thing for days. "Sam, this is what we do. Things like the
owners—demons, that's what they are, demons. We hunt them. We put them down. We
hunt weres and walkers and shifters, we hunt vampires and monsters in the dark
and we do it to keep people safe. Do you understand?"
Yes, yes, Sam thought, he got it. They hunted. Instead of fighting in the ring,
killing in the lights to the sound of the crowd, they did it alone for…no
reason that Sam could see. What was the reward in it? What did Dean get out of
it? "Do we kill humans too?" he asked and Dean's eyes went wide, his face pale.
Sam winced inside. Why did this have to be so hard?
"No! That's wrong. We never kill humans—unless they're rogue witches or
necromancers, or…"
Sam nodded and let Dean rant on. So. Some humans they killed, but he'd better
let Dean make the decision. Sam couldn't really see the difference himself. His
thoughts wandered again while Dean went on about licenses and registrations and
other words that went into Sam's mind and right out again, like an arrow
through a skull. He thought about Dean not wanting to kill people. That made
him think about Dean being killed—Sam grunted at the sudden, sharp pain in his
chest. To lose Dean. It would be terrible—the worst thing that could happen to
him. Even Bobby, he thought, rubbing his chest, even that would be bad. Bobby
made good food and he was nice. Sam narrowed his eyes, thinking. If he
pretended these other humans he wasn't supposed to kill were Dean or Bobby….
"Do you get it now, Sam?"
"Yes, I do," Sam said. And he did, as far as Dean needed to know. Sam waited
until Dean was off cursing quietly over a pile of papers and complaining about
"government work." He slid out of the kitchen and wandered off into the junk
yard. Bobby's new dog and Pun both stared at him, afraid to bark or come
closer. Sam knelt in the dirt and held his hands out. He had scraps of bacon
that he'd hidden earlier that morning, before he and Dean had the talk. "I'm
sorry," he murmured. "Didn't understand before. Here. Take this."
The dogs edged forward, the new one, Biz, coming first. Sam let him snatch the
bacon off his palm. Biz swallowed it and whipped his stubby tail in the air.
Pun edged forward slow, slow, and took the bacon with the barest nip of teeth.
Sam smiled. I didn’t understand, but now I do.
When Dean came to find him, he was leaning against the wheel of an old truck,
Biz's head in his lap and Pun leaning against his foot. Dean stopped, his mouth
dropped. "So…you made some friends?"
"Yes," Sam said. "I made friends."
                                      =+=
Sam leaned on the kitchen sink and stared out the window, watching Dean work.
His hips rocked slowly against the cabinet, eyes locked on Dean. Thinking about
him, imagining him touching Sam the way he touched the car he was working on.
Sure. Firm. Sam licked his lips and imagined himself kneeling in front of Dean,
swallowing him like….
"So…Sam. You settling in…better?" Sam was startled to find Bobby was right at
his elbow—he moved quietly for an old man. Sam was impressed; it was not that
often someone could come ghosting up on him. Sam turned red and dropped his
chin to his chest. He mumbled a yes and shifted away, guilt making it hard to
meet the man's eyes still. Bobby said he was okay with Sam, but Sam wasn't
stupid. Bobby might be willing to ignore that he'd killed Mack, but forgiving
him for it was a very different thing.
Bobby slowly reached past Sam to the faucet, and filled a glass with water. He
glanced out the window to where Dean was wiping down his car, the black paint
like a mirror under the sun. "Dean, he's pretty happy now. He thinks he's found
his brother." He took a sip of water, taking his time, one slow sip, then
another. Sam reluctantly turned to face him, curious as to Bobby's point. Bobby
put the empty glass on the counter. "But you don’t even know what brother
means, do you? Or family, I'm guessing."
Sam gave Bobby an exasperated look and Bobby sighed. "Yeah…I guess Dean been
talking about it a lot, but not really spelling out what that all means, hunh?
He's so fucking happy now and I hate ta break his bubble."
"Brother means not to hurt…right?" Sam asked. He'd thought about it and that
seemed close to what Dean was telling Sam.
Bobby snorted. "Well, yeah, there's that. But brother also means…well, it means
blood. Sharing blood with that person, wanting that person to be safe, and if
you're lucky, liking that person too. Or people, you know, family. Family's the
people that you may not always like but ya can't live without them. If it's
good family, they back you up—you're never alone when ya got that."
Sam felt excitement run through him. Yes, yes, of course he understood that. He
knew what sharing blood meant, how it made you the same, everyone feeling the
same and understanding it. And family…Bobby was talking about pack, which meant
that Dean did understand, and that Sam had been right all along. This was his
new pack, Dean was his packmate and the head of his pack and that made it
right. It meant he was supposed to be here with Bobby and Dean. Simple, Sam
thought. It had all been so simple all along, and he didn't know why he hadn't
let himself see it before. Brother was just another name for packmate. Sam
smiled at Bobby, felt happiness through and through, and Bobby smiled back.
"I'm guessing you got a better idea about the whole situation now, Sam, judging
by them dimples."
Bobby laughed when Sam enthusiastically nodded, hair flying into his eyes, so
excited that he didn't bother to scrape it out of the way.
                                      =+=
It was night, it was warm and his bed was soft, but it wasn't enough. His skin
felt too tight. His fingers ached with cold and wanting to touch. He stepped
quietly, slowly across the room until he was at Dean's bedside. He stared down
at him, his lashes, his soft mouth. He slid fingertips carefully over the short
stubble on Dean's jaw. It rasped his skin and sent little tingles dancing in
his fingers. He leaned slowly, carefully, closer, so that he could smell the
air around Dean, the air he exhaled. Closer, until he was less than a breath
away from his mouth and then Dean inhaled, deep and sharp. Their lips brushed,
Dean's as soft as Sam imagined, the skin a little sleep-tacky, warm and smooth.
Sam held it for as long as he could without breathing, and then inched back and
licked his own lips. He inched back farther and farther until he was back in
his own bed, his prick hard and aching between his legs. It was…something new,
confusing. He'd been hard before, he'd fucked before. It was wanting it so
much, needing it—that was new. Dean confused and upset him. But he was Sam's,
even more than Iz or Ana or…any of the others had been. Brothers, which meant
they were connected, but Dean still pulled away…Sam huffed quietly in
frustration, wished he could still feel thoughts, see them the way he used to.
Sam shook his head. Never regret, want, or wish. He closed his eyes and willed
himself to sleep.
                                      =+=
Dean finally moved past the talking about hunting to the training for it. Sam
was ready, more than ready, he looked forward to it. This way he could show
Dean that he didn't need to be so careful and fearful with Sam. The last thing
Sam needed was protection.
The first day of training, they went to a clear space in the yard. Sam shivered
when they walked into the place Dean chose—there was chain link on one side of
it. For a moment, Sam was stumbling into a ring again. Heard the screams of the
owners, got the stink of blood…he stood blinking wildly until the world settled
again. "The sun, my eyes," he mumbled when Dean asked him what was wrong. It
was okay. He was out of that and hunting wasn't anything like fighting, Sam
told himself.
He took off the shirt that Dean had given him, one with stripes the color of
Dean's eyes and shiny white buttons that snapped all down the front, his
favorite…Sam froze, his mind stumbling with the wonder of it. He had so many
clothes now that he had favorites… He slowly became aware of the quiet in the
yard, and Dean was looking at him strangely.
"If you're done making out with your shirt," he said and cocked his chin
towards Sam. Which was when Sam became aware that he was rubbing the soft shirt
against his cheek. He blushed, grinned and shrugged. What could he say? It was
his favorite. He tossed the shirt onto a table shoved up against the fence.
Stretched and Dean coughed, turned a bright red. Sam grinned to himself. He
knew what it did to Dean when he showed his body like that.
Dean moved slowly towards Sam, and Sam was ready to show Dean how this was
something he was good at.
After the third time Dean put him on the ground, Sam was wild with frustration.
Anger, embarrassment, and the sheer unfairness of it all made tears stand in
his eyes. He was shaking slightly, and his body kept telling him that all he
needed was some of the coke and it would be better—he'd be better, he just
needed a little bit of the blood. An echo of the blood crawled through him,
like tiny hooks under his skin trying to work their way out. Dean slapped him
lightly on the cheek, drawing his attention back outside of himself. "Hey, hey,
hey—listen to me, it's okay, Sam, it's okay. You just need to…to...get used to
a different way. It's not the same, you can't just bang away anymore and count
on the—that demon blood—there's nothing that's going to fix you if you get
hurt, but time and your own natural healing. I'm gonna teach you how to fight
and not get hurt," Dean said. "Well, not so much hurt, anyway."
It was different—Sam found out how different when he began to learn from Dean.
It was a whole new world with whole new rules. Dean taught Sam different hand-
to-hand styles, and reinforced that not every fight ended in a kill. Dean was
satisfied that Sam worked well with knives. He didn't press too hard to see
what Sam could do after he found out that he was accurate with a throw and
reduced practice dummies to slivers. He was surprised to find out Sam couldn't
put an edge on a knife—had no idea how to maintain them, or any of the weapons
Sam used. Still, the praise Sam got when he showed Dean what he could do was a
thousand times better than any he'd gotten from Uncle.
Dean taught Sam about guns too, and that was completely new. It was also slow
going and boring, so boring he had to fight not to hit Dean so many times. Just
the thought of it made Sam smile, because Dean laughed every time Sam wanted to
strangle him, like he knew what Sam was thinking and he found it funny. Dean
was…he was kind and patient, smart and brave. He was so good to look at and to
smell, wonderful to touch. He was also annoying, irritating, bossy, and just
wouldn't listen to anyone but himself, and he made Sam do stupid things over
and over—
                                      =+=
Sam was hiding from Bobby and Dean. He didn't feel like washing dishes and he
didn't feel like loading bags into the car, and they kept saying he needed to
learn to make up his own mind, so…here he was, making up his own mind to do
nothing. At least until they found him, he thought and grinned. Not so many
moons—months—ago, he would have been terrified that Dean would beat him; a few
months ago, he'd thought Dean was his trainer. Now he knew better. Now he knew
Dean could never hurt him, no more than Sam would have hurt Iz if he hadn't…Sam
blinked against the sudden jab of pain. Sam missed him. It hurt, thinking of
Israfil—all of them. He chased the pain away with good thoughts of Iz, sleek
and smooth and warm against him. Pretty smile, warm hands, thoughts like water
over round stones….
It was a good feeling.
He stretched out across the roof of the shed he was hiding on. He liked being
high, he liked being outdoors. The roof was just right—hot, but not hot enough
to burn. A little breeze blew his hair in and out of his face—an odd feeling.
He'd learned to tolerate what he thought of as an irritating mess because Dean
seemed to like it so much…he touched Sam's hair a lot. Sam thought getting hair
in his eyes was worth that. He laid his head on his crossed arms and cocked one
leg up, letting the heat of the roof soothe him. Heat underneath him and the
warm sun on his belly lulled him into sleep; he floated half in and half out of
it, sometimes catching glimpses of big birds floating in lazy circles across
the sky. He tried to imagine what'd it be like to have wings and fly where you
wanted to. He stretched his arms out to the sky and spread them wide…wings.
Wings were meant for flying away, and away meant being far from Dean, and that
meant nothing good. This was enough: being out, breathing, doing whatever he
felt like doing—or not doing—and waiting for Dean.
He heard a noise in the yard and turned over onto his belly. Dean was walking
towards his car, a big bag over his shoulder— Sam made a face, it was the one
with the guns in it, he saw, and huffed. Still didn't like them. Yesterday Dean
said that they were ready for a hunt and Sam looked forward to it—a ghost,
simple, Dean had said, a good beginner's job.
Dean was fiddling with the trunk—had shucked his shirt off and tucked it into
the back of his pants. His arms were bare, they gleamed with sweat. Sam groaned
into his crooked arm when Dean stretched like a cat. Muscle rolled under his
skin, a beautiful, smooth movement, like blood pouring down glass. Sam licked
his lips, moved onto his side and shoved his hand down his pants, cupping his
prick—no, dick—Dean said only stuffy Victorian heroines called it a prick.
Though why, and what a Victorian heroine was, was a mystery to Sam. He stroked
himself, not with any real end in mind; it just felt good to watch Dean and
touch himself while he did so. Sam let the sun warm him, his thoughts warm him.
Dean was his life. His everything.
Sam's hand stuttered over his dick and his breath caught—it suddenly hit him,
what that meant, his everything. Bobby warned him to take care of Dean, watch
out for him—he gave Sam a look when he said it and there was no mystery in that
look. He meant for Sam to protect Dean from Sam too. Well…Sam hissed and felt
precome ooze over his fingers; he played with the wet, and slid his finger
through the slick. Sam didn't think he was going to pay any attention to Bobby
as far as that went. Dean needed Sam, and there was nothing Sam could do to
Dean that would hurt him.
He squeezed a little harder; swept his thumb over and over the wet slit…stroked
a little faster and watched his pack leader circle the car. He loved Dean's
rolling walk, the curve of his legs. Sam tucked his thumb in his mouth and
sucked it clean. Those legs; they should be curved around Sam, pulling him
close…"oh…" His eyes narrowed with the good feeling sparking through him. He
sucked his tongue and imagined the taste was Dean's—he wrapped his hand over
the end of his dick and caught the come spurting out of him with a low,
strained moan. Dean stopped. Sam wondered if he'd heard, if he'd look up, and
got ready to scoot back out of sight. But he didn't and Sam relaxed. People
looked down, looked over their shoulders, and from side to side but they very
rarely looked up….
Sam watched him go back to the house. He idly licked his hand clean, tonguing
his palm, sucked his fingers until the only thing left on his hand was spit. He
sighed, rubbed his hand dry on his leg.
                                      =+=
3
They left early in the morning, Bobby sending them off with a thermos of coffee
and a warning for Dean to watch out for Sam. Dean huffed a lot, but Sam just
watched Bobby's eyes, and how they went from Sam, to Dean, and back again. Sam
dipped his head, let the hair swing in front of his own eyes, and mask the
blush that wanted to rise when Bobby cut his eyes to him. Bobby had experience,
he was smart, and saw things sharply. Still, Sam couldn't fault that
sharpness—it was part of the reason he was fond of Bobby. He was fairly certain
Bobby returned the feeling.
Being in Dean's car was worlds different than being in Uncle Luke's truck. For
one thing, Sam found it relaxing, and not just because he was in the front seat
instead of locked up in a cramped travel cage in the back. He'd ridden in the
front with Uncle too many times for it to ever be any kind of treat or good
memory. No, being in Dean's car, this felt…it felt like normal, like a deep
down normal. He wondered…if he was Dean's brother, in the way that Dean thought
of brother, had he ever been in this car before? He ran fingertips over the
dashboard, felt the warm bumpy surface and wondered what it would have been
like if he had grown up as Dean's brother. He glanced at Dean and found him
staring, the soft look on his face that he got whenever he thought Sam was
having some kind of…family memory. Sam sighed. Dean. Always hoping, always
wishing to have the impossible. Sam smiled at him and Dean's fond look spread
into a smile too, and few minutes later, he was banging on the steering wheel,
singing some song he insisted Sam just had to know, and should sing along
with…it did feel good, Sam thought.
Along the way, Dean told Sam about the hunt, explained that this hunt they were
taking on was one he'd normally pass on to a 'newbie'. It was a haunting, a
"basic class one", he called it. "Just the thing to cut your teeth on."
Sam nodded. Teeth. Cut. He got that.
                                      =+=
They were in a motel again. Sam dropped the bags and gazed thoughtfully around
the room. Just a few months ago, a room like this had seemed so huge, safe, the
bed impossibly big and soft. He shook his head. How had he gotten used to a
comfortable life so quickly? He put the bags in the closet and joined Dean,
sitting at a table in the corner of the room.
Dean had the laptop open and papers spread out across the tabletop when Sam
joined him. "It's not a big deal really, just a basic salt 'n' burn. Tell you
the truth, it's so not a big deal that it's just been tagged a 'watch' for
years. Someone looks in from time to time, checking that it hasn't escalated.
And lately, yeah, there's been a blip or two there, a few sudden spikes in
activity, so SMAC sent out alerts…" Dean tapped some keys on the laptop as Sam
watched avidly. He couldn't wait to get his hands on that thing…the dancing
pictures on it fascinated him. "There." Dean turned the screen towards him.
"There he is. Sean Jones. Shop owner. Killed in the course of a robbery,
thirty-some years ago, poor bastard. The idiot who shot him didn’t even mean
to, accidental discharge—not that it mattered to Sean. He haunts the general
area…shop's a coffee place now." Dean shuffled through papers, and held a
picture out to Sam. Sam took it, looked at a young girl with bandaged arms and
an alarmed expression. There were a few other pictures of other staff, showing
various injuries, all sporting stunned expressions on their painfully young
faces.
"So now, an employee of the place gets scalded—after hours, after the
coffeemakers are shut down. Someone else almost fucks up their hand, said the
knife jumped and turned on them. After that, we get a couple more shady events.
So now it looks like quiet, polite, ghost-Sean is shading over into vengeful
spirit. Happens a lot, when ghosts get confused, when they start to lose all
idea of who they are. Things left over from life—major, like getting iced, say,
or minor, like…you parked in my space, can become an all-powerful need to
avenge whatever shit they think needs, well, avenging…you know what I mean."
Sam nodded. That made sense. When you were hurting, and had nothing or no one
to hang on to, it was easy to give in to the urge to make others hurt too, easy
to see it as right.
Dean picked up the keys from the local police, filed papers that registered the
hunt and them as the hunters, and then drove to the shop turned café. As they
drove towards the café, Dean told him what it was like when his dad was alive
and they hunted together, his dad and Bobby; how they would have had to break
into the place, sneak around under cover of darkness, risk arrest. He sounded
wistful, Sam thought, like he'd missed something good.
Dean was odd sometimes.
                                      =+=
Dean was shooting round after round of salt, and Sean blew up and reformed
crouched over Sam's body. Sam's fingers scrabbled against the old carpet, ached
to grab the iron bar Dean had given him, the iron bar that he'd dropped the
instant ghost-Sean's icy fingers skated over his skin. Sean's mouth was moving.
Sam stopped screaming in his head, and really looked at the thing hovering over
his chest. There was something about Sean, his face…Sam watched Sean's mouth.
not me, not me—help the people here. It wants to hurt the people, not me…
Sam yelled, "Dean, stop shooting!"
"What? Stop what?" He heard Dean shout back and heard the 'ratchet' sound as
Dean shoved another shell in the gun.
"It's not the ghost-Sean; it's something else—"
"Something else…?" Dean lowered the gun and the instant he did, Sean wavered
and disappeared. The breeze generated by Sean's passing grew into a gale,
sweeping Dean up and slamming him into the wall above Sam. Along with the
roaring wind, a freezing blast swept the room—anything not fastened down went
flying. Music blared out of the little speakers hung in the corners; tables
jittered, screeched across the floor, the coffee makers erupted. Fountains of
water blew up from the sinks and the little rugs scattered across the marble
floors flapped like crazed bats. Sam lay under a stunned Dean and gawped at the
chaos.
Just as suddenly as all hell had erupted, it stopped, and Dean wasted no time
scrambling up from where he'd dropped to the floor. "Fuck! Probably a damn
poltergeist, fuckin' rampant teenage hormones—" Dean grabbed Sam and they
dashed for the car.
"We're running away," Sam gasped, and thought that was an excellent idea, was
in complete agreement of running when the odds were lousy—it meant you could
always double back and hamstring your opponent—
Dean seemed to think Sam was complaining. "No, no—got hex bags in the car. It's
still a simple job," he grinned at Sam and Sam laughed back—Dean's grin was
full of blood, his teeth stained with it, and Sam grinned and grinned back.
Dean was beautiful that way.
Dean rummaged through the trunk and crowed in victory— tossed Sam two fat
little bags filled with something smelly, then a hammer and then, a silver
knife. "The knife's for the silver content, it'll break the 'geist up, if it
attacks. The bags are what's important. We need to get them in the four corners
of the building—inside the walls." He was puffing as they ran back up the
porch. "Think of the building as a body and the walls as its skin—we need to
get the medicine under the skin."
Sam nodded. He'd make sense out of what Dean was saying later, right now it was
enough to know that he should run to the first of two rooms on the right side
of the café—Dean had the left side—then, break a hole in the wall and stuff the
stinking bag in.
He dashed to the far corner—one strike of the hammer sank it into the wall and
Sam stumbled, surprised that it broke that easily. He pulled crumbled drywall
and wallpaper aside and crammed the bag in. He sprinted to the next room, only
his feet flew out from under him and he went sliding, slamming into a desk
covered with files and papers against one side of the room. A cold presence
draped itself around him. A small desk lamp smacked into his head, sending
stars exploding in his sight. Its trailing cord began to wrap around his throat
in freezing coils, tightening until his throat felt like it was on fire.
Sam was scared, more than he'd ever been at any of Uncle Luke's parties or in
any fight ring. His sight went dark, his chest ached and all his worry was for
Dean, without anyone to watch out for him if Sam died, who would drown in the
guilt of losing his brother again. So Sam fought, wrestling the cord, his
elbows knocking against the wall behind him, and—
Against the wall—He slammed his elbow back against the plaster so hard he felt
something give, it took him a moment to realize it was the wall. Hope soared as
he pushed the bag in his hand into the wall and the cord drooped around his
neck. Sam just got it untangled when he heard Dean from the other side of the
house.
It took him a few minutes to reach the other room—he had to fight his way
through a blizzard of napkins and plastic glasses, and he tripped at the
bizarre sight of Dean doing battle with a chair—chairs—spinning wildly in
midair around the room. Cups spun off the counter, airborne and headed for Sam.
Dean tossed him a bag, yelling, "Get it in the corner—fuck!" A chair collided
with his head, throwing Dean to the ground.
There was blood, and Sam was torn between Dean and the job. Do what you're
supposed to do Luke's voice broke through Sam's worry, ingrained fear made him
explode into action. There was a job and he had to do it or else…
He was in the corner and kicking a hole in the wall before his brain had quite
caught up with him. Sam dropped to his knees and shoved the bag in just as a
series of cups and saucers hit the wall where his head had been, like bullets
shot from Dean's gun. Sam rolled and crawled towards where Dean was now
fighting with something that looked like a wheel made of forks. So far he'd
managed to bat it out of stabbing distance with the silver knife, but he looked
exhausted—and the forks were getting closer.
"Dean!" Sam shouted and launched himself to Dean, grabbed him by his belt and
pulled him away from the forks. "Last one, Dean, where—?"
"Doorway, back in the doorway, Sam!"
Sam grabbed Dean with both hands and hauled him up and out of the room. They
stumbled towards the door, dodging what seemed like every single item in the
café—another cord whipped out and caught the back of Sam's hand, opened it like
a whip. He hissed and then Dean was kicking him through the doorway, bashing a
hole in the wall. The last bag slotted into place just as a fork pinned Dean's
hand to the rose-patterned wall—the café rocked with the sound of metal and
glass and ceramic smashing together and then—nothing. The total silence stunned
both of them.
Sam blinked, his hand dripping blood, his ears ringing; even so, he could hear
Dean cursing over the noise in his head. "Goddamn motherfucking fuck!" Dean
yanked the fork out of his hand and threw it out onto the porch.
Sam wiped at the mess of hair sweat-glued to his face, rubbed the blood off and
onto his shirt. He asked, "This was…a good job?" and got a puzzled, edging-
onto-annoyed, look in return.
"What?"
"Are you okay?" Sam asked instead.
Dean stared at Sam, blood smeared over his face from a cut across the bridge of
his nose and the one on his forehead that had reopened. His cheek already going
purple where a chair had clipped him, bruises from cups matched the bruises Sam
wore, and he said, "Oh, peachy."
Sam nodded, "Peachy…that means good, right?" and then giggled. Dean cocked his
head at him.
"Dude, did you just giggle at my pain?"
Sam shrugged and giggled again, quietly at first, and again, louder. His eyes
went wide as Dean gawped at him. Sam was afraid that he'd offended Dean but
then Dean laughed too, softly at first, then louder, catching Sam up in it with
him, louder still until they were both howling and weaving around the car,
entertaining the small audience they'd drawn.
Finally, Dean managed to stop laughing. When the last giggle died down, he took
a deep breath. "Woo, okay. Let's go get this job rubber stamped and then take a
fuckin' shower or five." He yelled back at the café, "Don’t make me come back
here for you, Sean."
Sam laughed again.
                                      =+=
Dean turned the car onto the highway and glanced at Sam. He could hardly
believe how different he was now. He kept getting flashes of Sam, the way he'd
been just laughing so hard, bent over, arms around his middle and letting
loose. It made Dean smile again. Hell, it was worth getting forked to have seen
that. And then…Sam had lit up like early Christmas in that sheriff's office.
The look he'd given the paper with his registration number on it…so what he was
only registered as Dean's assistant, which pretty much boiled down to bag-
handler gofer—that wasn't important. What was important was that to Sam, that
piece of paper was proof he existed outside of a fight ring. That he had some
worth all his own. Dean swallowed hard and found he had to thumb a little
plaster dust out of his eyes…yeah.
What the hell was it about Sam that turned Dean into a giant girl? He cleared
his throat and glanced at Sam again. Said, "Damn good thinking back there, Sam.
How'd you know it wasn't Sean acting up?"
"He told me," Sam said, like it was no big deal.
"Really? Most ghosts don’t speak, y'know, clearly…."
Sam shrugged. "I read his lips. Easy. Used to it."
Dean remembered those kids, silently talking a mile a minute to each other,
just an occasional muffled word and grunts and fingers flying…lip reading had
to be a part of that, sure. "Well, you kept us from getting skewered. Well,
skewered by worse," he said and ruefully glanced down at his hand.
"We get back, I'll clean that," Sam said. Dean started to protest but Sam said,
"I want to help you." And how could Dean resist?
                                      =+=
They showered as soon as they got back to the room, first Sam and then Dean.
Dean complained about Barbie-sized towels with the absorbency of bricks; Sam
pulled his boxers and t-shirt on and blocked out most of whatever Dean was
going on about, nodding at all the points he figured Dean expected a response.
"—and that's why you need a decent towel, Sam, y'know?" Dean sat on the end of
one of the beds, and inspected the punctures in his hand. "Hunh. First aid
kit's in the bag there, you ever—"
"Yes," Sam interrupted. "We healed fast, but sometimes," he shrugged. "Needed
stitches, binding up." He pulled out alcohol and gauze pads and tape and set to
work. Dean watched him with a smile. Sam was so serious, it was kind of cute.
Or something that sounded manlier, but basically meant the same thing.
Sam looked up at him and smiled too, and then kissed him carefully in the
center of his palm. And that should have made that fond feeling grow—it was so
sweet, so gentle—but instead, it made his dick harder than iron and sent a wave
of lust through him so hard and fast, he grunted with the sudden, startling
weight of it. "Sam—"
                                      =+=
Sam looked up from Dean's hand, startled by the rough, dark tone in Dean's
voice. His eyes were black, his mouth soft, open in a small, wet O.
Sam shivered. This was good. Dean wanted him. He could show Dean that they felt
the same. Or…show him that Sam could protect him, show him that Sam was strong
enough to take care of him….
He shoved Dean back on the bed, fast, before he could move or get away. He tore
Dean's boxers down and knocked his legs apart. Sam jumped up on the bed, his
knees pinning Dean's thighs so he couldn’t move. He wrenched Dean's t-shirt
over his head and behind his back, pinning Dean's arms as well. Dean was
shouting, fighting against Sam. Sam was expecting it; Dean was strong, a
leader, but he'd understand once Sam made Dean his.
Sam shifted, grabbing Dean's legs and pushing them to his chest. Sam had a
tight grip on his thighs, so tight his nails cut into the skin. Dean wouldn't
stop squirming, trying to kick at him. Sam frowned. By now, Dean should have
stopped fighting and been ready to give Sam his right. He shook Dean hard in
warning. Still pushing his legs up and apart, Sam spit on his hole. Wet enough,
he thought, this didn't need to last long; he just needed to get inside Dean….
Sam pushed his boxers down one-handed, pulled put his dick, and that one bit of
inattention was all Dean needed—he jerked to one side and kicked Sam in in the
face when his grip slipped.
Sam yowled with shock and fell over. The middle of his face pulsed with pain.
"What—why are you hitting me?" he complained and Dean looked at him like he was
crazy.
"What the fuck was that—no, no, what the fuck was that?" Dean reared off the
bed and punched Sam, shouted, "What the fuckin' hell—why? I wanted—" and Dean
stopped, his red face going redder, his eyes overflowing. He shook his head, "I
can't look at you, damn it. Get away from me."
Sam scrambled backwards until he fell off the end of the bed, his hand still on
his burning cheek, his shoulders throbbing from the punches Dean landed. "This
is the way it goes. I thought…you wanted!"
"Yeah, okay—not rape. Not rape…oh my god," Dean said and his voice went shrill
and high with horror. "Is, was it like that all the time?" He stopped, bared
his teeth but it wasn't meant as a challenge, Sam knew, he could tell—it was
complete and utter revulsion.
Sam's stomach cramped, went tight and flat inside and he wanted to crawl under
the bed and stay there until he died. He wished Dean would hit him again, and
keep hitting him until the look went off his face. He nodded, one swift jerk of
his head and he pushed away, one eye on Dean waiting for Dean to stop him, to
take his right. But Dean jumped off the bed and Sam saw with shame how he was
scored with red, hipbones, belly, thighs….
Dean slammed the bathroom door and Sam heard it lock. He sat on the floor, legs
spread, his hands between them and waited for Dean to come back out and tell
him what was going to happen next.
"Was it really like that always, Sammy?" Sam jumped—he hadn't heard Dean leave
the bathroom. "Because that's…it's kind of bad Sam…god, it's really bad. That's
not what sex is about…" Dean looked like he wanted to say something else, but
he stopped and took a deep breath, wiped his hand across his mouth. "Sam…did
you like that?" He looked embarrassed as he asked, but Sam understood that
these were hard questions for Dean.
"I…no. Yes, sometimes. It was…the blood made it right, when you brought a
fighter down, the owners…demons I mean, they let you sometimes, it was the
right. It happened to me, it happened to others. And the co—blood made it seem
like a good thing, like it was the best thing, and you wanted it so much…" Sam
shook his head hard and shuddered. "After…" he shrugged, and finally looked up
at Dean. "I thought I was supposed to do that. You wanted it. And I thought."
His eyes started leaking again; he couldn't hold tears back, as much as he
wanted to. His chest felt like it had a grappling hook in it and hurt no matter
how he rubbed at it.
"Listen…you did this to your friends too?"
Sam shook his head. "No. the pack didn't fuck each other. We just…" Sam made a
gesture old as time, a swift jerking motion with his hand and Dean snorted like
he couldn't help himself. Then he looked thoughtful.
"Did you like that?" Dean asked.
This time it was easier to answer Dean. "Yes. It was nice. Iz, and Ana…Zack,
sometimes Asael, we helped each other feel good. Sleep was better, came easier.
Made it warmer too, if it was cold. Sometimes, it just was too cold to even do
that." Sam made a face, remembering, and for some reason Dean laughed. Sam felt
a brief flare of annoyance before he mentally smacked himself. If Dean could
laugh that way, maybe Sam had a chance….
"That's sex, the real thing," Dean said. "You loved each other and wanted to
make each other feel good so you were good to each other, and oh my god, I
can't believe I'm even having a conversation that includes what a good thing
group sex is." He rubbed the back of his neck.
Sam stared at his feet and asked, "There's no such thing as the right anymore?"
He looked up to find Dean's eyes on his. With no trace on a smile on his face,
Dean nodded. There was no such thing, and Sam knew it should never happen like
that again. "Good, because I didn’t really like it. My prick liked it better
than my brain. Do…do you understand?"
Dean sighed and dropped his head back against the edge of the mattress. "God
help me, yes, I do. Sam. Come here. Please," he added when Sam wouldn't move.
Not that he was afraid of Dean, he was just…disgusted with himself and it felt
like if he touched Dean, Dean would be spoiled by him. "Get the fuck over
here."
"Okay, yes." He scooted along the floor until he was only separated from Dean
by inches, and Dean hauled him in tight the last few inches.
"So…never do that again. But maybe…you were right. About what I was feeling.
The thing is, what I was feeling, am feeling…it's so…wrong. It's the kind of
thing people would never, ever understand. So much so that it doesn't matter
what we feel, it's just wrong. And still…" Dean looked sad, and like he wanted
to throw up at the same time. "I know it's hard for you to understand, but
there can't be anything between you and me, not like that, there shouldn't be,"
Dean said. Something in his voice made Sam pull back to look at Dean. He had to
nudge Dean's face towards him to meet his eyes. Dean's skin burned to the
touch, his face was going that violent red again. Sam leaned against him and
when Dean didn't move, he hitched himself around so that his legs were over
Dean's and his head was on Dean's chest, being sure his head was tucked under
Dean's chin. Dean's arms went around him like he couldn't help it; he pulled
Sam in tighter and both of them sighed.
"Ah, Sam," Dean muttered and stroked Sam's head. "I can't even begin to tell
you how fucked up this is. I don't know how to explain how fucked up I am, or
fuck, even start to explain incest and…stuff. Shit."
"Bobby knows I want you," Sam said, keeping his voice low and small, kept
himself from flinching when Dean did. "And I know he thinks it's wrong. He
doesn't want to see it, because of the brother word, even though it can’t be
wrong because that means pack and we're pack, but Bobby is human which
means…other humans won't want to see this, what we have. Am I right?"
"Holy fucking—ye-ah. That's." Dean swallowed so hard Sam could feel it, hear it
loud as a shout. "That's pretty much everything right there. I'm kind of
impressed. And horrified. You put some thought into this…thing." Dean pushed
Sam back, and looked at him, stared at him. "You know, this is like the longest
conversation we've had since I found you."
Sam was surprised as well. It had just kind of poured out of him, like his
mouth had gone right past his brain and spilled everything it could to keep
Dean from running from him. He didn't feel anxious or stupid, or guilty. Dean
hadn't told him once to shut up, in fact, he looked pleased. Proud. Sam smiled
at him and Dean laughed softly.
"Well, I think we should sleep on this—apart," he said quickly and Sam huffed,
feeling a little disappointment. He'd thought that he could show Dean how it
was with his pack…that was just the way it was with Dean, though. He'd have to
come to Sam on his own, because he wanted to. He'd need the room to think about
that. It was always better if all the pieces came together on their own; it
settled into the brain deeper, felt more like the right thing. Sam leaned back
into Dean, and enjoyed the warmth seeping into his body and heart. The pleasure
of it, the complete rightness of it, made Sam smile. He hugged Dean lightly
before getting up. "Sleep, no more thinking until tomorrow," he said and walked
away.
Dean just nodded. "That's a plan I can get behind."
Sam nodded and slipped into the bed, pulled the covers to his chin and let
himself relax. He listened to Dean's waking breath, knowing that he was turning
thoughts over and over. He lay in bed awake most of the night listening to Dean
sleeping, but it was a good wakefulness and when he did finally drift off, he
was smiling.
                                      =+=
Back at Bobby's, things were a little different. Dean seemed tense, fidgety.
Sam wasn't sure if it was lingering adrenaline from the hunt or if it was Dean
fighting with his feelings, but not long after they'd arrived at Singer
Salvage, Dean began talking about packing up, hitting the road. He wanted to be
back in his own place, he said. Sam was fascinated by the idea of being in
Dean's place, somewhere that was Dean's alone. Sam was sure seeing Dean's house
would be like reading a giant book all about Dean. It would tell him more about
his pack. His brother.
Plus it would give him time to convince Dean that Sam could be a brotherand a
packmate and more, if Dean would just unbend that stiff neck a little….
Sam sprawled out on the living room couch, watching Dean and Bobby as they
worked in the kitchen. They were back and forth, cooking, talking, drinking the
sharp-smelling drink. Dean looked good, just like he always did when he was
smiling; his hands flying through the air as he talked, almost like he was
talking with them. Sam could imagine it easily, Dean mingling with his pack. He
would have fit in well.
He was content just to watch them as he lingered over the orange juice he'd
chosen for himself. The juice was different; it was good, like milk was good,
and had no bubbles in it—drinks that bubbled made him want to throw up now. He
savored the sweet, tangy taste of it and dreamed about Dean and his taste. Sam
squirmed back deeper into the couch's soft cushions and sighed, then pressed
his toes against the arm of the couch and stretched. It was a good life now;
Sam was sure it would be an even better one when he and Dean were in their
place.
Finally Sam felt that Dean was ready. He saw it in Dean's movements, the way it
got harder for him to settle. Sam understood that; he'd felt it a little
himself, back when his life was about constant change. On the day that Dean
declared it was time to move on, Sam had already gathered his stuff together.
Dean asked him, "Are you nervous about leaving Bobby's house? I get it if you
are. You've just about gotten used to the place and…"
Sam shrugged. "Not nervous." If Dean was ready, Sam was ready.
                                      =+=
They were in Bobby's driveway, Dean loading bags into the trunk and Bobby
loading food into the back seat. Sam watched from the side of the driveway
where he was kneeling with one arm around Biz's big neck, scrubbing his nails
all over Biz's furry chest.
"Yo, Sam, tell your best friend goodbye and get over here."
Sam grinned and gave Biz one last rub, slapping his sides before standing. Pun
even let Sam pet him before slinking away.
Bobby held out a wrapped sandwich to Sam. "Sausage, egg, and cheese on this
one, I know what you like, boy. Don’t gobble it all down at once, you'll get a
bellyache. Take your time, y'hear?" Bobby stared Sam in the eyes and Sam
swallowed. He nodded. "Good," Bobby said. "Good. Remember, it's a big old world
out there, and yer gonna meet a lot of people. A lot of people. You just…be
good in the meantime and you mind Dean, y'hear? Do what he says," Bobby said
sternly and Sam nodded.
"I will. Do what Dean says."
Bobby's eyes were still on Sam's, sharp as knives and then his face softened.
He held his arms out. "Well, c'mon. Gimme a hug. Ain't gonna see ya for a
while. Can't believe I'm sayin' this but I'm gonna miss yer yeti ass."
Sam looked helplessly over Bobby's shoulder at a grinning Dean, his hands
fluttering before coming lightly to rest on Bobby's back. "Me too," he managed.
"All right, girls, break it up before you start singin' Kumbayah or something.
Sam, mount up—Bobby, we'll be back like bad pennies, can't get rid of us that
easy, y'know."
Bobby and Dean hugged each other. Bobby said something close to Dean's ear and
Dean nodded. They pounded each other's back a time or two and then broke apart.
Sam wondered if he should he have hit Bobby too but decided no, seemed like it
was something personal between the two.
"Buckle up, Sam," Dean said as he slid into the driver's side of the car and
threw it into drive. The car rolled forward, bouncing gently down the uneven
driveway and Sam turned his head, watched Bobby waving good-bye from the porch,
growing smaller in the rear window. He wondered why Bobby stood on the porch
when they weren't coming back. It didn't make sense. Still, there was something
about Bobby doing that that was satisfying…a little sad, too.
Dean glanced at Sam, misunderstood his silence. "My house is pretty decent,"
Dean said, "you'll like it. It's not anywhere as big as Bobby's, but I think
it's comfortable and you can't beat having a lake in your back yard. Figured I
needed a home base—s'good to have a place that's just yours. Besides, if I get
a chance to retire, I got a lake and a great place to put my feet up and
just…fish, y'know? Fishing, Sam. First thing we'll teach ya. It's a great way
to pass the time."
Sam nodded. Dean and his stories…Sam smiled at him, feeling a low flush of
excitement at finally being able to see Dean's real spot. Place. Sam huffed.
Dean's house. On a lake.
"I've had it a long time now. Bought it with my dad's—our dad's—insurance
money. SMAC…" he glanced over at Sam. "You probably don’t remember, but when we
were little, life was a hand-to-mouth existence. Once SMAC was set up, that
meant Hunters got paychecks and medical and…none of that means crap to you,
hunh?" Dean chuckled, "Let's just say things are a lot better now."
He beamed at Sam and Sam smiled because Dean was happy, and the way the sun
made his green eyes glow was pretty, and Dean's mouth curved in a wonderful
way. The radio played music that Dean said was the only decent music in the
world…Sam hoped that one day, he'd think so too. As for right now…Sam pressed
an ear against the seat back and tried to muffle the sound of Dean's "great
music."
                                      =+=
"Let's stop, I need to move my ass before it thinks I've died. You hungry?"
Sam said yes and reached into the back seat for the sandwiches Bobby had sent
with them but Dean stopped him. "Nah—I want a hot cup of coffee and hot food.
Let's stop up the road, there's a pretty good diner and a gas station 'cross
the way."
They walked in to the building that Dean called a 'diner'. The diner was filled
with people eating food. Sam glanced at the tables, each one covered with
plates full of food. The people ate it, wasted it—he watched them treat the
food like it was nothing. Sam blinked. It was a different world now; he had to
remind himself over and over just how different. Sam closed his eyes for a
moment; he opened them again to a man who was staring at him, a look in his
eyes that Sam was all too familiar with. It startled him, freezing him where he
stood. For a long minute, Sam forgot that in this new world, nothing mattered
except Dean and what Dean wanted.
"What'sa matter, you lost?" The man smirked. "Or you see somethin' you like?"
He licked his lips and Sam's stomach did a queasy slide inside.
Dean was suddenly at Sam's side, hand on his elbow and breaking the hold of bad
memories. Dean glanced from Sam's pale face to the man grinning at him. He shot
the man a cold glare, said to Sam, "I got us a table, come on."
Sam glanced back and the man was still staring, smirking. Sam cut his eyes to
Dean. Dean didn't look angry, just mostly annoyed. He wasn't moving on the man,
so Sam figured that what had happened wasn't important—still, he thought, if
he'd been in Dean's place, he would have taken the man down, hard. That look
was too filled with challenge to just ignore. Sam sat where Dean pointed out
and picked up one of the colorful cards lying on the table. Sam knew he was
constantly stumbling over the new rules; the best thing to do was follow his
pack leader's cue …even if sometimes it seemed to him that Dean was making a
mistake.
A woman appeared at the table in a cloud of grease-sweat-cherry scent and
startled Sam out of his thoughts—his fingers twitched towards the dull knife
next to his plate before stopping himself.
"Okay, Sam, you can tell our waitress what you want to eat," Dean said, moving
the knife and fork slowly, definitely farther, from Sam's plate. He looked at
the woman and gave her a smile that looked painted on. Sam cringed back against
his seat. He'd done something wrong—again—and now Dean was trying to draw
attention away from his wrongness. Sam folded his hands and held them under the
table. Maybe if he didn't move at all….
When he looked up, Dean was looking at him. He wasn't angry, or sad—just
patient. He said, "You can just point out what you want, Sammy, or I can choose
for—"
"I know what I want," Sam said, angry for a moment. This was normal life. He
knew how to behave normal. He didn't need Dean's help. Too much. He glanced at
Dean and wondered how he could ask for help without actually asking.
Dean was watching him, his mouth open just a bit, and it slid from a frown into
a fond little smile. The woman sighed and Dean shook himself, all business
again. Said, "My brother…y'know what, just bring us two number seven's, okay?"
and he slapped the card back on the table.
The waitress narrowed her eyes at Dean, stared at Sam, and seemed to come to
some sort of understanding. "Oh—oh," she said, "yeah sure. Whatya wanna drink
with that, honey?" she asked Sam, her lips moving carefully, like Sam should
try and read them.
She stopped and looked at Dean, as though he should provide Sam's answer. Dean
glared at her before looking back at Sam. "Milk. Right Sam, you want milk?"
Sam glanced at the menu at Dean, at the woman. "Sure," he said, "Yes." There
was something else going on here that he was not understanding, but he gave up
trying to puzzle it out and soon, the woman brought them plates of food and set
them on the table. The food was good, but not as good as Bobby's. There was a
lot of it, almost too much but he made sure to eat it all, so Dean didn’t waste
money. He even had two glasses of the milk after the woman told him there were
free refills and Dean explained what that meant.
They were waiting to pay at the register when Dean elbowed Sam and pointed to a
door off to the side. "That's where the bathroom is," Dean said. "We're not
stopping in ten feet so that you can pee, so—go."
Sam stomped off to the bathroom, very annoyed. He'd learned a long time ago how
to not pee until it was allowed, and Dean needed to stop treating him like a
bait. He slapped his forehead. Baby, damn it, he meant a baby. He peed, and
made a face at the Dean in his head, promised himself that Dean would find a
way to make it all up to him. He washed his hands and then the door opened.
"Well, well, tard. Looks like your keeper's gone and left you. Said he don’t
want you no more. But, good news—he gave you to us and we're gonna look out for
you now."
It was the man with the evil look, the one Dean should have challenged. Sam
snorted. Of course he better than to believe the man. Dean would never do that,
he knew Dean would never do that…but deep inside, hunched over in a dark part
of his brain, was a well-trained part of him that thought maybe Dean had given
him away. Or just lent Sam out....
"Come on, we're goin' out the back way." The man twisted his hand in Sam's
sleeve and tugged. Sam hesitated. The man was just a human, not a trainer or an
owner, no one that Sam had to fear. And Dean wouldn't…Sam went to tug his
sleeve out of the man's grip. At Sam's jerk, the man swung back and punched Sam
in the temple. Sam's head flew backward and slammed into a stall door. His head
rebounded off the doorframe and into another punch. Bright, white spots
exploded in his eyes. The ringing in his head almost drowned out the command,
"On your knees."
A trainer…trainer speaking to him, didn't smell like an owner, Sam thought
blearily. He tried to drop into a perfect Kneel, but he was disoriented by the
buzzing in his head and he swayed instead of holding position. He quickly put
his hands on the trainer's thighs like he'd been taught, hoping to distract
him. It worked.
"There you go, knew it. We could tell just looking at that bitch out there he
was gettin' somethin' good outta this. The way he looked at you…no one'd drag a
retard moose like you along for nothing."
The words flowed over Sam like murky water, just meaningless sounds. The ache
in his knees he knew, the ringing in his ears and bright flashes of pain in his
head he understood. The man had grabbed a handful of Sam's hair and was
twisting it. His scalp screamed, the pain made his eyes flood, but little pain
like that was easy to ignore. Sam worked the zipper down and pulled the strange
trainer's prick out. He almost choked trying not to yelp when the impatient
trainer shoved a thumb into the corner of Sam's mouth and cranked it open.
"Well, get to it—show us what y'can do."
Sam swallowed hard, wet his lips…he pushed forward quickly to get past the
feeling of choking, kept pushing until the thick pressure against the back of
his throat gave way to feeling the head lodge in his throat. The man began
snapping his hips, hard and fast. Tears streamed down Sam's face, the struggle
for air making his eyes and nose run. He felt light-headed, which made him make
a terrible mistake. He swayed and the movement made him pull off for a second.
The man hit him, of course, but Sam was ready for it and steadied himself
again, shifting quickly under the cover of the blow and relieving some of the
pressure from his knees. "Be careful, damn it," the trainer growled.
Sam took great, heaving breaths of air, and quickly scrubbed his hand over his
face, smearing wetness and mucus across his cheeks. He smiled at the man,
because most of the time that was what they wanted, they wanted Sam to pretend
he liked it a lot….
The door opened quietly. Sam heard someone enter, another trainer maybe. He
smiled wider because he'd ignored the trainer in front of him and that was bad,
that meant Uncle Luke would punish him, and he hated punishment. "Please," he
said, and suddenly the trainer in front of him gurgled and jerked out of Sam's
grip, dropped to his knees and crumbled flat to the floor. Sam instantly
clasped his hands over his head and tried to curl himself in tight so that his
soft parts were hidden behind his ribs and spine.
It wasn't a trainer who walked in, it was Dean; an angry, frightening Dean who
grabbed Sam by the arm, yanking him up off his knees before throwing him into
the wall. Dean planted his hand in the middle of Sam's chest and shoved. He
snarled, "Don't move."
Sam froze against the cold wall as Dean straddled the man on the floor, hitting
him—Sam saw the skin on Dean's knuckles break and the man's blood fly, droplets
spattering the white tile and running down in thin streaks. Dean was cursing,
slamming his fist into the man's face, his gut. Sam held himself against the
tiles and shook. He didn’t know what was happening, but it was bad. He should
run, find some place to hide, but it was probably safer not to move. Besides,
Dean wasn't going to kill him, Sam knew that. The trainer had done wrong, not
Sam. Sam tried to squeeze himself smaller at that bad thought, a thought that
went against all of his training. No trainer ever did wrong. Sam must have
failed, he'd tried to do exactly what Dean wanted him to do, but obviously he'd
done something wrong and now this was happening. Sam moaned…he was making
mistake after mistake. This soft life had ruined him, had made Sam think he was
something he wasn't. Made him think he deserved better . . . that he was
better.
Stupid.
When Dean turned to him, he wanted to kneel, but he stopped himself at the look
on Dean's face. He waited, eyes locked on Dean's and lungs squeezing shut. Dean
wasn't going to kill him, he wasn't going to kill him, he wasn't going to….
"Come on," Dean snarled.
Dean tugged him out of the bathroom and they left the diner at a run, bursting
through a door that led to an alley stinking of rancid dumpsters. Sam followed
on Dean's heels, close but not too close. Sam wheezed, trying to breathe
through the tight bands crushing his chest. Dean wouldn't look at Sam, just
pushed him into the car and drove off with his hands strangling the steering
wheel. Sam pushed himself into the door, trying to make himself invisible.
Suddenly Dean slammed his fist into the dashboard, cursing so loudly that Sam's
ears rang.
"Fucking—god damn shit!" He shook his already damaged hand, blood flying, and
Sam jerked when a few hot drops splattered his cheek.
"How could…you were…" Dean made a disgusted noise. "Smiling." He fell silent
again and drove faster while Sam held on to the edge of the seat and tried hard
not to move. Or to breathe too loud, or do anything to draw attention to
himself. Sam stared out of the side window and tried to keep his mind blank. It
had worked for him in the past, but he was finding getting into that perfect,
empty place in his mind was much harder than it used to be. He kept tripping
over images of Dean.
All the joy and sense of adventure they'd started this trip with was gone. It
was Sam's fault, he'd done this; somehow he'd ruined this. But how? He'd done
just what he was supposed to…Sam's wildly racing thoughts crashed to a stop.
Had he? He glanced over at Dean, afraid to see fury on his face, but Dean just
looked like he had when Sam first came to live with him, so tired, sad….
If he wanted being with Dean to be a good thing, then he had to know where he
failed. Sam bit his lip. He'd have to ask questions—and maybe Dean would give
him a chance to explain.
"Can…can I speak?" Sam asked, trying to force his voice loud enough to be heard
over the music and the roar of the engine. It hurt, felt like his throat was
coated in sand. Dean hesitated for a long minute, refusing to look at Sam, but
finally, he gave a sharp nod. Sam went on, asked, "What happened? Why are you
angry? I did what you wanted. The trainer told me that you gave me…that you
wanted me to…"
Dean turned eyes like green fire on Sam. "Trainer, what trainer, what are you
talking about?" he growled.
Sam blinked and blinked; his mouth opened, but the words weren't there. A
growing feeling of horror chilled him. "Trainer. The…ones who show us what to
do, make us fit for the owners."
"You…you think that I'd have anything to do with demons? In any kinda way?"
The car slewed to the side of the road, dirt and rocks bouncing off the
undercarriage, but Dean completely ignored it. They slammed to a stop and Dean
shut the car off, his head dropping to the steering wheel. He was quiet, not
moving.
It felt like the world had opened under Sam's feet and he was being sucked into
an endless black pit. He was so stupid. It should have been obvious. Dean had
killed the Owner and set Sam free…why would he throw Sam back? Dean was a
hunter; more than that, a hunter whose family had been killed by demons. There
was no reason, no way that Dean would ever work with demons.
Dean lifted his head, and said quietly, "I couldn't—I wouldn’t make you do
that, wouldn’t ask you to do that with anyone, ever. I—I don’t understand how
you could think for one minute that I would." Dean's voice shook, like he was
on the verge of tears. It was too much for Sam, he couldn’t understand. He
heard the words but piecing them together…he couldn’t make them fit, they made
no sense. So he hid; he closed all the doors inside himself and hid. He gave
Dean the words he knew Dean wanted to hear.
"I know understand that now," Sam said. "I made a mistake. You would never ask.
You would never work with demons. You would never make me do that." Sam waited
for Dean to relax and if not forgive Sam, then punish him so they could get
past this. Sam was beginning to hurt from trying to keep all the bad feeling
in.
"No Sam, damn it—that's not what I want from you. Don’t just parrot back a
buncha words to me. Listen to me. You are…you're my brother. You're my…I want
you to be happy, to feel safe. To know I wouldn’t hurt you." He stared at Sam,
and Sam nodded. He knew that, he should have known that.
"Sam." Dean scrubbed his hands over his face, his hair. He looked torn apart,
like at the end of a really bad fight and the whole pack was hurting and there
was no way to make it better. "You're mine," Dean said, "you belong to me,
you’re mine and I won't ever fuckin' share. I got you back, and nothing and no
one will take you from me again, you hear? Do you understand that?" Dean asked
and gripped the back of Sam's neck, hard. He squeezed. "Do you?"
And that Sam understood. He relaxed inside. He felt as light as feathers in the
wind. Yes. Only Dean's. He reached out and rested his hand over Dean's heart,
felt the steady, heavy beat of it. "Yes."
"Okay then," Dean said. "Okay." He put the car back into drive and eased back
out to the road. "I'm gonna tell you that every day, until you believe it deep
down inside. You're my partner," he said and blushed for some reason. Sam
tilted his head and watched the wash of red flush Dean's cheeks and spread to
his neck. He liked it. Wondered just how far down that red flush went…
"Jesus. You’re thinking dirty things, aren’t you?"
Sam shook his head and did his best to look as if he'd been thinking about
nothing, but judging by Dean's snort, he hadn’t done a good job of it. He tried
to muffle a soft laugh behind his hand, but Dean heard him anyway, and Sam was
rewarded by Dean's smile.
                                      =+=
It was early evening when they pulled up in front of what Dean declared to be
home. Dean barely turned the key to shut off the car before he had his door
open, sliding out to stretch, arms wide, in the driveway. He waved Sam over to
him. "Don’t worry about the bags," he said, "We'll get them later. I just wanna
get inside and take a piss."
Sam climbed out of the car and carefully shut the door, his eyes on Dean's
house as he moved. It didn't look anything like the house Uncle had had for
them, that year at the lake. Sam realized he'd been expecting that it would.
There was a faint smell of lake water, cut grass and fresh overturned soil, a
smell that sent shivers down his back. He was relieved to see that the smell
came from narrow strips of raw dirt on either side of the house's doorway. The
house looked neat, clean—it was a crisp sky blue, and there were white borders
around the windows. There was a small porch, just room enough for some chairs
and a tiny table. There was a pot of flowers on the table and that surprised
Sam. Dean and flowers. It just didn't fit with what he knew about Dean.
Dean ran up the porch, turned to smile at Sam before he unlocked the front door
and pushed it wide. He walked inside with a pleased sigh. But Sam stalled on
the top porch step, eyes on the front door. Looking into the doorway was like
looking into a tunnel, and some part of his mind told him that going through
that door would hurt him, would throw him into an endless free-fall....
He shivered again, so hard that Dean noticed and came back for him, took him by
the hand and led him across the porch. "Cmon, Sam, let's get you in the house,
you don't look so good."
Sam followed behind Dean slowly, reluctant to go into Dean's house and not
understanding why. He stopped on the threshold and was hit with a deep,
confusing sense of longing and being lost. His feet felt too heavy to move. He
peered into the house…Dean was walking around, opening windows, and talking all
the while. "There's a guy—Will—and his kid, a few houses over, they take care
of the place for me. It's like a business, I guess? Caretakers? Anyway, they
make sure stuff's in order when I'm on the job. Keep the place clean; make sure
pipes don’t freeze in the winter." He walked into the kitchen as he said that
and Sam made himself step into the house, watched Dean open the taps at the
sink. He said, "Always good to let the water run a bit when I've been gone
awhile…"
Water rushed into the steel sink with a gurgle, like blood draining out of a
sliced throat. Sam blinked—the world went black, opened his eyes and it was too
bright—his breath hitched. He knew this; he'd been here before…he'd watched
Dean do this before.
No…not Dean….
Dean pulled open the fridge door and Sam caught a faint scent of lemons. "Hell
yeah, Will actually got decent beer this time." He winked at Sam, and moved to
the cabinets near a stove and opened them, one by one. He hummed in approval,
said, "Okay, Sammy, we're all stocked up—heh. Will's kid always sticks a box of
Lucky Charms in the cabinet, he's a real comedian. In his own mind."
Dean turned to Sam with the box, grinning, totally unaware that Sam was
shattering. Sam nodded because Dean expected some response…couldn't take his
eyes from the box in Dean's hand. Kept seeing the vague shape of a man with a
little boy, holding the same box.
Everything went soft and crumbly around the edges. This thing, whatever it was,
it was too much. It took up too much space in his head and made the hazy
pictures go dark. He was so sad—it pulled at him like hooks, hurt like someone
was ripping his heart in two and he didn't understand what it had to do with
Dean and his house but it did.
"Hey, you okay?" Dean dropped the box, grabbed Sam by the arms. "Hey, Sam,
Jesus, Sammy, you okay?'
"I—I'm okay." Sam pushed Dean away, he needed space to breathe. 'I'm okay, I'm
okay."
"You're really not, Sammy, lemme see." He swept Sam's hair out of his face.
"Hey, come here," he said and pulled Sam back into a hug, coaxed Sam to rest
his head on Dean's shoulder. "You remember what I said, right, about you
belonging to me? This is our place. We're gonna be fine here, you're gonna be
happy here, I feel it."
Sam lifted his head and stared around at the room they stood in. That odd,
doubled good-bad feeling swept over him in waves. He was aware of Dean, the
solid feel of him against his own body and suddenly he needed to be closer, to
climb right inside him—he needed Dean like he'd never needed anyone or anything
before.
"Dean," Sam said aloud, without meaning to. "Dean, Dean, Dean—"
He couldn't stop; it was like something in him broke and hurt so much breaking
that only Dean could keep him from flying apart. He was filled with something
thick and black, he coughed it up and it became jagged sharp edges that tore at
his insides as it came up and made his eyes bleed…no, made his eyes water. Dean
patted him all over, rubbed his back and shoulders, held Sam's face between his
hands and kissed him with tiny little kisses all over his face, his mouth, his
cheeks, his eyelids. "Sam, Sam, no, no don't cry, it's all right, I swear it
is, gonna get better, please Sammy, I promise—"
More of the broken pieces dissolved and poured out of him. Sam held on to Dean
tight as possible and cried until he just couldn't anymore.
Dean dragged Sam to a bedroom, Dean's room, made him sit down on the bed. "Sam,
hang on," Dean muttered when Sam clawed at him, begged him not to go—Dean
kicked off his boots, got out of his jeans and over-shirt until he was standing
there in just a tee and boxers. He helped Sam undress, and then Sam was down to
his underwear and shaking, gooseflesh pebbling his skin and his teeth
chattering so hard he could barely hear what Dean was telling him. "Less
clothing, Sam, skin to skin…it helps…." Dean touched him and suddenly Sam
realized he was freezing and he was shaking because of the cold.
Warmth slowly seeped into him, the heat coming from Dean and the weight of
solid muscle pressing Sam into the mattress felt so good he moaned…Dean said,
"Gotcha, gotcha," and pulled him into a hug, practically rolled Sam on top of
him and Sam clung to him like he was a rock—the only thing keeping Sam's head
above storm-racked water.
"Shh. It's okay, it's okay," Dean said it over and over. His voice was soft and
sweet, almost like Dean was singing, and finally, finally, Sam let go. He was
asleep before he knew it.
                                      =+=
Dean woke up with a warm weight snugged up against his side. He squirmed back
against it, sighing with content. Caleb must have showed up in the night—good.
What with Director Waller wanting him on the road to Kansas in the morning,
it'd be a relief to have a reliable partner at his back…wait. Dean blinked.
That already happened, what....
In a rush, the evening's events came back. He still wasn't sure what was going
on with Sam, but he sure felt lighter, lighter than he'd felt since Vic had
shoved a mostly unconscious kid into the front seat of the Impala. Of course,
he knew that was ridiculous; Sam falling apart like that didn't necessarily
mean a good thing. But—maybe it could be. Wasn't that what was supposed to
happen—you let the bad stuff out so the good stuff could grow? If so, then he
and Sam would rebuild…everything. Together. Dean stroked all the parts of Sam
he could reach, smiled when Sam leaned into his touch, even asleep.
Dean could feel Sam starting to wake after a bit. He shifted to his side, still
not quite awake, and slowly pushed his hips into Dean, sleepily rocking against
his thigh.
"Um, Sam, hold up," Dean muttered and tried to ease out from under the tangle
of gangly little brother, but Sam snagged his arm, pushing and tugging Dean
until they were facing each other, which meant now Dean's dick was nudged up
against Sam's. Of course, Dean's dick tried to express its interest in the
situation. Dean figured he could hardly pretend that he hadn't just fattened up
in no seconds flat just from brushing against Sam, so he shrugged.
"Good…morning?"
Sam stared at him for a long moment, his face set in a blank mask and then, a
slow, tentative smile bowed his lips. "Can I, I want…" he said, and inched
forward.
It took a million years for Sam to cross those few inches, forever before he
touched his lips to Dean's. The kiss was a dry, brief brush against Dean's
mouth, but like that time after the hunt when Sam had pressed a kiss into
Dean's palm, it affected him way more than it should—made him go hard as stone.
"Damn, Sam, really, I gotta get up, c'mon," he groaned. Sam ignored him
completely and took another kiss; a bit more than a gentle brush this time, and
Dean's lips parted under the pressure of Sam's. The sly sweep of the tip of
Sam's tongue struck sparks all through him. The way Sam teased him, tormented
him with kisses, lit Dean on fire.
Dean was surprised by Sam's…seductive…approach. He'd expected something totally
different, something…wild. Frantic. A wet mash of lips…or violent, gnawing,
aggressive bites. Instead, Sam kissed like he'd spent his whole life waiting to
do just this…the way Sam carefully, calculatedly, scraped teeth against tender
skin, the way he sucked Dean's tongue, had Dean shaking. Sam nipped and Dean's
dick jerked with it; he cupped himself and squeezed, pulsed with every slow,
hot, wet kiss. Sam's mouth made him weak, left him burning with the need to
have more.
Sam threaded his fingers though Dean's hair and tugged, so Dean let him lead.
When Sam moved from open-mouthed kisses messily tracing the tense bow of Dean's
neck to a sharp snap over his pulse, the contrast between pain and pleasure
pulled a groan out of Dean—startled him out of the daze he'd slipped into and
he tried to pull away.
Sam was not on board with Dean moving away. He held tight, nipping his way back
up to Dean's mouth, soothing each nip with a swipe of his tongue. Each kiss was
more delicious than the last; Dean's tongue slid against Sam's, in and out of
Sam's mouth like an imitation of fucking. Sam inhaled suddenly like he'd read
Dean's mind and leaked a moan into the kiss. All the while he slowly, slowly,
eased his hand into Dean's lap. He worked the damp fabric of his boxers aside,
fingers stroking over his balls—Dean had some vague idea that they should slow
down, but the more Sam touched him, the more his higher brain functions
dribbled away. Sam just made it too easy to stop thinking, the way he was
easing his way downwards, kisses scattered from Dean's throat to his chest to
his belly, lower and lower…Sam's breath washed hot and damp over the crown of
his dick before Dean's brain engaged again.
 
"Sam—don't."
"No, Dean," Sam said, an edge of desperation in his voice. "I'm good at this.
You'll like it." Sam stared up at him; his bottom lip clenched in his teeth and
his hair a wild halo around his face.
Dean glared at Sam. "No. I mean it—now come back up here."
Sam slithered back up and flopped onto his back, glaring at the ceiling like he
wanted to kill it with his mind. Dean sighed. "Damn it, nothing I say ever
comes out right…" He reached for the waist of Sam's boxers, and said, "I'm not
mad and I'm sure you're, y'know…good. At that." Sam huffed and glared back at
Dean, but lifted his hips obligingly when Dean nudged him to. He gulped when
Dean pulled his boxers off. The mood changed completely. Sam wasn't annoyed
anymore, instead he tensed and immediately rolled over onto his belly. He
hitched his ass up, buried his face in his arms and spread his legs wide, like
a sacrifice. It wasn't the least bit arousing, in fact, it was heartbreaking,
and the worst kind of buzzkill, Dean thought. Sam…Sam constantly had Dean on an
emotional seesaw.
After a sort but ridiculous struggle—trying to turn the kid was like trying to
unroll a pillbug—Dean got Sam on his back again. He rubbed his finger between
Sam's eyebrows, smoothing out the knot of worry and confusion there. "Unh-unh.
Let me do something for you first, okay? Trust me."
Sam gnawed at his lip before giving Dean an uncertain nod, and then gasped like
he'd been punched when Dean wrapped his hand around Sam's dick and kissed away
the slick welling up at the tip. Dean mouthed wet and sloppy at the head and
Sam jumped, yelped, and then laughed softly like he was embarrassed about
jumping. Dean liked that, that Sam was comfortable enough to react openly.
Liked more how Sam unraveled bit by bit as he traced the length of Sam's dick
with wet kisses, until Sam was dripping and Dean's hand worked up and down
easily. He enjoyed the silky-smooth shift of skin over hardness, the weight and
warmth of Sam's dick in his hand. Enjoyed the way Sam blinked and gasped and
quivered. He squeezed, and Sam groaned his name. Dean smirked. "Yeah? Like
that, do ya?" Dean figured he was owed some payback for Sam teasing him like he
had…it was Dean's turn now.
Sam shivered and whimpered, his hips jerking into Dean's hold. Dean let him go,
chuckled when Sam moaned, "No…no stopping, Dean."
"Not going anywhere, promise." He jerked his boxers off, tossing them over the
side of the bed. Sam watched him intently, his eyes darting over Dean, from
face to dick and back again. He licked his lips and tried to reach for Dean but
he grabbed Sam's wrists and held them over his head, slotted himself between
Sam's legs.
Sam…Dean stared down at him, tracking all the changes since he'd found him. Sam
was going to be a giant one day, Dean thought, grow even taller than Dean. He
was getting a little bit of fat between bone and skin, just enough to make him
look sleek and streamlined and less like the tortured wire sculpture he'd been
when Dean first saw him. Dean growled. Fucking hell, the boy was hot—Dean
wasn't even going to look at the tangled, fucked-up, wrong rat's nest of his
thoughts. This was his Sam. "All mine," Dean growled and Sam threw his head
back against the pillows, spread his legs wide as he could. He rubbed against
Dean like a cat in heat, but he was trembling, fearfully, and that brought Dean
crashing out of his racing fantasies and back to real life.
Sam was nervous—or scared. He was barely half-hard; Dean realized Sam was just
presenting himself the way he'd been taught to, and his stomach did a queasy
roll. He pulled back, rubbing slow, soft arcs, back and forth across Sam's
belly, his chest, up and down his ribs. "Shhh," Dean murmured. "Relax, babe,
relax…."
Sam's dick fattened up again under Dean's touch; he pushed into Dean's caresses
and Dean had a feeling at this moment, he should definitely take the wheel. He
shimmied down Sam's body, ignoring Sam's little shocked, dismayed noises.
"Quiet, I'm the boss and I do what I want." He cocked an eyebrow at Sam and
mock-scowled. That brought a wobbly but real smile out of Sam. "Better," Dean
winked, then dragged the flat of his tongue up Sam's dick. Sam almost levitated
he flinched so hard, and Dean got a thick blurt of precome across his lips. He
grinned at Sam and licked it off, and went for him again.
Sam jerked wildly and shoved his dick right down Dean's throat, a move Dean
hadn't been expecting, and the coughing and gagging freaked Sam out again. Dean
didn’t let go though, he worked his tongue and lips around Sam, sucking up the
slick that seemed to just pour out of the kid. He had to pin Sam flat to the
bed with the way he was writhing all over, balling up the blankets and sheets
and narrowly avoiding nailing Dean with flailing legs and arms. Dean held him
down and sucked his dick like it was going to be the last thing he did in life.
Sam strained against Dean's hold, howled long and loud—came like he was dying.
He shuddered and moaned and his dick jerked and jerked what felt like forever,
and Dean kissed and licked and mouthed Sam before he finally hissed, "Dean,
please," and Dean let him go.
Dean sat up, his own dick so hard it hurt. He palmed it and got a handful of
slick he worked up and down the shaft, slow and careful. "I guess it's been a
while since you've done that, hunh? Unless I'm just that good," he grinned down
at Sam's awestruck face.
"I've never done that," Sam said. "It was…" he shuddered and moaned and Dean
thought he might lose it right there. It took a moment before what Sam said
percolated through the fog of lust.
"Wait, what…but I thought… you and the other kids, the pack, you know."
 
Sam shook his head. "No, we only ever did that thing you did at Uncle Luke's
parties. Uncle liked me to do it to him but he never did it back, no one
did..." Sam lifted his eyes to Dean. "The pack, we just used hands, sometimes.
And we kissed. Kissing was the best. But this…" he cupped himself and his eyes
drifted shut again. "Only you."
"You fuckin' got that right," Dean muttered. "And for god's sake, stop calling
that pervert motherfucker 'Uncle'." Sam nodded, but he had that slightly blank
look on his face that said Dean's words meant squat-all to him and Dean sighed.
It was okay, Sam would get it someday soon. He stroked himself again and Sam
batted Dean's fingers out of the way, wrapped his fingers around Dean's dick
instead. Dean pushed into the tunnel of Sam's fingers, rolling his hips,
breathing harder. It was good, a little too good.
"Wait," he said and he eased out of Sam's grip. Sam went stiff again; Dean felt
his heart race under his hand. "Shhh," Dean said and lowered himself over Sam.
He took the moment to steal a kiss and began moving, his dick skating over
Sam's abs, rocking into Sam. Sam reached down and pressed his hand over Dean's
dick so that it was trapped against the taut skin and Sam's hot, smooth palm.
It slid, slick and easy through sweat and precome and it was perfect—just what
Dean wanted. Sam watched, they both watched, the flushed, glistening head of
his dick slide in and out of view. Dean shuddered with the waves of sensation
scorching through him, he'd felt close to the edge forever and this, the way
Sam watched so hungrily, knocked him right over the edge. His balls drew up
tight and he groaned, "I'm—fuck—coming, Sam—now!"
Sam gasped and came again just as Dean let go. Dean moaned and collapsed
against Sam, sliding through the mess between them, while Sam panted his name
in his ear, and his fingers moved in loops and squiggles across his back. He
wondered what Sam was saying….
When he finally got the breath and the brain-power to speak, Dean asked, "You
okay, Sam? You feel all right?"
Sam looked at Dean like he was crazy. "Yes, very much…did…did you like it?" Sam
carefully wiped himself with a balled up wad of sheet, refolded it to a clean
section and passed the sheet to Dean. "The fucking part. We can do that. If you
want. I mean, when you want."
Dean wiped himself less carefully, and tossed the sheet to the floor, ignoring
the small, displeased grunt Sam made. "As far as I'm concerned, that was the
fucking part." He laughed. "I'm all about feeling good, and having the person
I'm with feel good too. And I loved making you feel good."
Sam slid across the bed until he was pressed against Dean's side. "You did
that. You always do that. I'm so lucky, Dean. I hope you feel that."
Something grew hot and full in Dean's chest and washed through him from head to
toe; he had to think about it to identify the feeling—it was joy.This was what
he'd expected to feel like when he shot Azazel; he hadn't known that revenge
never brought joy, not like this.
So Sam might never remember anything about his life before, and Sam might never
forget what he went through, but he was still tough as nails and strong as
hell. Most important, Sam wanted to be happy and he wanted to be with Dean…that
was good enough, good enough for beginnings and middles and maybe even for
happy endings. It could happen. He looked at Sam, let himself enjoy the sight
of Sam relaxed, radiating contentment…he traced the shape of Sam's face,
flicked his fingers across his lips and Sam snorted, narrowed his eyes like a
pleased cat. Dean smiled—until his finger skimmed the tattoo under Sam's eye,
and suddenly that was all he could see.
"We, unh, can take that off of you," Dean said. "I can afford to do that, the
ones on your arms and shoulder, too…we can take them all off."
"Why?" Sam asked, nothing but mild curiosity in his voice.
"Why? Why? Because—because they're like…slave marks. Don’t you want them gone?
Azazel put them there, to show…they're…."
Sam shrugged. "They're not important," he said and stretched, rolled upright.
"Do they bother you?" he asked and again he seemed only slightly curious. There
was no heat in his voice at all, none in his face.
"How can they not bother you?" Dean demanded.
"The Owner's dead," Sam replied. "In this world and the next. When you shot
him, you unmade him." At Dean's nod, he went on, "I can't belong to nothing, so
these marks mean nothing. Maybe…since you killed him, they mean I belong to you
now. Anyway, I don’t care. Unless you want me to," he said, and finally looked
concerned.
"But, Sam…okay. Yes. I want them off you. I know there's no power in them,
but—" Dean grimaced and Sam chuckled softly. "What do they mean, do you know?"
Dean couldn't stop touching the damn things—he laid his open hand over the
marks on Sam's shoulder, covering them, hiding them.
"Some, yes—some no. The crowns are kills. They were generals. I was a general
too. The Owner said so," and Dean's blood ran cold with how…almost proud Sam
sounded. "The Owner thought he was unkillable, but you…" The look Sam gave Dean
made his face go hot. "You killed him." He covered the hand Dean had on the
tattoos with his own. "Now they mean nothing."
But Dean couldn't think that way. Sam dropped back to his side and curled
around Dean, a soft huff of contentment ghosting over Dean's skin. Dean traced
the brand on Sam's shoulder, the sigil that kept Sam free of possession. It was
the only thing on his body that didn't make Dean want to vomit. Even his scars,
so much like Dean's own, made him sick. They had such a different meaning to
them than to Dean's own, terribly different.
He listened to Sam's breath go slow and steady and slip into the rhythm of
sleep. He blinked hard; no way was he going to cry, much as he wanted to. He
ground the heel of his hand into his eyes. What would it have been like if Sam
had never been taken? Their lives would have been so different; he could only
imagine that their lives would have been so much better. Sam snuffled against
Dean's chest, threw a thigh over his and sighed back into deep sleep. Dean
cupped Sam's head, pressed a kiss into his hair. Got you back…nothing else
matters, nothing else in the world.
                                      =+=
The sun was a pale gold disk, low in the sky. It was still chilly; the grass
sparkled with tiny drops of water and chilled his toes as well. Sam trotted
across the lawn and down to a wooden dock leading out into the water. Dean's
lake was tiny, nothing like the huge lake where Sam had learned to swim. The
house was tiny, too, but it was wonderful. It was a place that fit him. Behind
all the doors, there were nothing but good things. Dean's house was full of
light and life, and that made it a million times better than any of Uncle
Luke's houses. Sam liked it, all of it. He liked that he could see the shore on
all sides of the lake, and how easy it was to swim from shore to shore. He
liked that when he sometimes needed time alone, he could sit in the room Dean
said was his. From that room he could still clearly hear Dean banging around in
the kitchen, or walking about in their bedroom. Sam woke up every morning to
the smell of coffee and bacon. Dean never, ever made oatmeal.
Sam sat on one side of the dock and kicked his feet back and forth. A bird
landed on the old boat tied at the dock and trilled at him—a challenge that
made Sam smile. Dean had pointed the boat out to Sam the first day they came to
the lake, told Sam that it was his and they'd take it out one day, and they
had. Every day, they took the boat out and Dean did that thing he called
fishing that never seemed to involve actual fish, while Sam stared at the water
or closed his eyes and pretended that he could still feel Dean in his head….
Across the way, Sam could see Dean's neighbors starting their days, lights
blinking on, doors opening, closing…that was different, too. With Uncle, he'd
been separated from other people. He remembered thinking, wondering, if Uncle
and his men were the only real people in the world. Sam sighed, laughed a
little. And then there'd been Dean, more real than…anything.
Sam got back up and walked to the top of the dock. He faced the lake. The sun
was higher, the grass was drying, and he could tell it was going to be a hot
day. Sam lifted his head back, closed his eyes and let the sun warm his face.
It felt good.
One…two…three…Sam let out a yell and ran back down the dock like a wyvern was
chasing him. When his foot touched the end, he launched himself into the
air—for one delirious second he was flying and then he hit the water with an
explosive splash.
The cold hit him like a sledge hammer—he arrowed to the surface and broke out
shouting. He fell back into the water, laughing. His arms and legs were spread
wide, and as he floated in slow circles, he couldn't stop laughing, laughing….
Dean was standing on the end of the dock when Sam opened his eyes again. He
looked like he was frowning and he was shaking his head. For one quick,
shattering moment, Sam thought that Dean was really angry. But when Sam really
looked at Dean, he could see that his eyes were glowing. Dean was happy, and
Dean was happy because Sam was happy. He walked down to the end of the dock and
leaned over, waited until Sam swam up and pulled himself up on his elbows on
the end of the dock. Dean knelt to kiss Sam, and Sam kissed him back, loving
how warm Dean's mouth was, how sweet and soft. His Dean.
"C'mon in," Dean said, "breakfast is ready. Though it shoulda been you making
breakfast for me, since you got up first."
Sam nodded. That was true. "Next time."
"I bet." Dean turned and walked back to the house.
Their house.
6-10-2013
                                   [k9e6bk]
                            Artist: delicioussakura
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